


Starting Over

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Romance, Blind Date, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Don't copy to another site, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: A disappointing blind date set up by well-meaning friends brings together John Watson, invalided army doctor, and Sherlock Holmes, asocial, "married to my work" consulting detective.Alternate First Meeting angsty fluff. Just two idiots falling in love.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 155
Kudos: 187





	1. The Blind Date

Standing before the mirror, Sherlock studies his reflection with a critical eye, imagining a stranger seeing him for the first time. A bit alarming, he decides. His features ought to add up to something pleasing, but they don’t. In his judgment, his face is too long; his eyes, too pale; his cheekbones, too sharp. All a bit too symmetrical, not enough to make him look alien, but just enough to put him in the uncanny valley. He has that affect on people— making them uneasy, as if he might be something other than human.

_Don’t smile too much_ , he reminds himself. _Always looks fake_.

“You look fine,” says Lestrade. “Just great.”

“I am aware that I look fine,” he replies. “It’s only a date.”

Lestrade chuckles. “And how long has it been since your last date?”

Sherlock sighs. “I don’t need a relationship.”

“Yeah, I heard that. Don’t need friends, married to your work, love is a defect. But what if you meet someone you enjoy being with, someone who completes you as a person—“

“You’re implying that I’m incomplete merely because I live alone and see no purpose in having a person— a partner, companion, significant other— to experience things with. Perhaps _you’re_ the one who’s defective. You’ve been married twice, both times ending in divorce. I don’t see how that makes you an authority on relationships.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Look, if it weren’t worth it, I wouldn’t bother.”

“Worth it for you, perhaps. The point is, why should _I_ bother? The odds of meeting this… this hypothetical person who will _complete_ me— on a random blind date—“

“Not entirely random,” Lestrade says. “Molly says—“

“Don’t. Don’t tell me anything about him. I’d rather make my own deductions.”

“Yeah, about that… You might want to tone down the deducing. Give the bloke a chance.”

“ _Tone down._ ” Sherlock turns and regards his friend. That’s what he supposes Lestrade is, after several years of working with him. He owes the man something, he knows, for giving him a chance, giving him the publicity that has brought in clients. It was Mycroft who got him off the streets (yet again), but his rehabilitation was much quicker after he met Lestrade, knowing that he had something to work towards.

“I mean, don’t say everything you’re thinking out loud. Internal monologue, Sherlock, keep it inside your head. You’re trying to put this guy at ease, not make him feel like he’s under a microscope.”

“In other words, you think I should lie.”

“Not lie,” Lestrade clarifies. “Just be a little less…”

“A little less _me._ ”

“If it were a crime, and he were a suspect, I’d say, _have at him_. But a blind date is not a crime. He’s just looking for a pleasant evening, maybe another date if the chemistry is good.”

“What does chemistry have to do with it?”

“I mean, you might hit if off with him. You know, attraction. Aren’t chemicals involved with that?”

Sherlock gives another beleaguered sigh. There is no point in arguing with chemistry, because: _science_. And there isn’t any point in arguing with social niceties, either, even when they serve no purpose. A man willing to go on a blind date must have issues. He is aware of his own issues. This man he’s going to meet, John Watson, must have issues as well. He is either unable to find his own dates, or he’s on the rebound from a relationship, divorced, separated, something. He’s out of the game, like Sherlock, and his friends— Lestrade, Molly, and Mike Stamford— have decided that he needs someone in his life.

The restaurant is one he’s never tried, recommended by Mycroft. Angelo’s might feel more like home territory, but if it goes badly, he doesn’t want to spoil future dinners at his favourite restaurant with the memory of an evening gone wrong, or to have witnesses to the disaster. If it goes well, if there is _chemistry,_ there’s always that option for next time. He will arrive early tonight so he can observe the man as he approaches the table.

As this thought crosses his mind, he winces. A bit early to be thinking about a second date. He still can’t believe he agreed to the first.

His mirror image winces back at him. Time to go. He’ll soldier through, make polite goodbyes afterwards, and return to his flat. Alone.

“Call me when you get home,” Lestrade says.

* * *

John Watson is putting on his best suit and regretting that he agreed to this. The suit hangs loose on him, and he’s not used to wearing a tie.

“You could wear your uniform,” Mike suggests.

“No.” That’s the past; tonight is about going forward. And who wears a uniform on a blind date? It was always good for pulling girls, but this is not _that._

“You look fine.”

_Debatable_ , he thinks. It’s bad enough having to use the cane, but he really can’t manage without it. He’s gaunt, having lost much of his muscle mass over the last four months. Grey hairs are starting to come in among the blond, and the eyes that stare back at him look weary. Not surprising, since he hasn’t slept through a night since he returned. Worse, he’s lost nearly all the confidence he once had. He’s no longer Doctor Watson, army surgeon, Captain Watson, RAMC. He’s a reject. No job, no family, no purpose. His once busy life has been reduced to therapy three times a week, physio Monday and Friday and Ella every Wednesday. He feels old. He looks old.

“Sherlock’s interesting,” Mike says. “I think you’ll like him.”

_Sherlock Holmes._ What kind of name is that? Who names a kid _Sherlock?_ “Right. You said he’s a detective.”

“ _Consulting_ detective. He helps the police on tough cases.”

“What did you tell him about me?”

“Nothing. You don’t tell Sherlock things; he deduces them.”

John winces. What will he deduce from this broken army doctor’s limp, his ill-fitting suit, his nervous manner?

“Don’t worry, John. I’ve got a feeling that you two will click.”

John doesn’t know what kind of person might _click_ with him. “Cab’s here,” he says. “I don’t want to be late.”

He is late. He didn’t want to splurge on a cab, but Mike insisted that he take the cash he pressed into his hand. _Humiliating_. Traffic was worse than he expected, the cabbie took what he described as a _shortcut_ and they ended up stuck behind an accident. By the time he walks into the restaurant, it’s ten minutes past seven, the time they’d agreed on.

The maître d' shows him to the table when he explains to him that the person he’s meeting should already be here. As he limps after him, he spots his date.

Sherlock is handsome, very posh, and John immediately breaks out in a cold sweat. A bad idea, meeting someone like this. His leg aches. He feels underdressed, badly dressed, and wishes he hadn’t agreed to this.

The detective is regarding him with the palest eyes John has ever seen. His dark curls fashionably tousled, he is wearing a suit that probably cost more than John’s entire army pension, a fitted shirt, dark purple (not that someone this posh would call it purple; _aubergine_ is more like it), and no tie. He rises when John arrives at the table. A tall man, with the lanky grace of a model. The entire effect, the clothes and the man, is elegance.

John smiles. “Hi.” The word is completely inadequate for the situation. “I’m John Watson.” _Obviously_.

Sherlock’s eyes move over him, taking in every little detail. “Please,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his own. He’s poised for a moment, as if he intends to pull John’s chair out and help him get seated, and John feels his face heat, feeling more than ever like a pitiful old man. Once it’s clear that John doesn’t need help, Sherlock takes his seat. _More humiliation_.

“Do you prefer _Captain_ or _Doctor_ Watson?”

“ _John_ is fine.” He smiles again, feeling even more brittle as he does. “I guess Molly told you something about me.” Molly isn’t the matchmaker, just the link between the two matchmakers— John’s old classmate Mike Stamford, and someone named Lestrade, a cop Sherlock works with. It’s Molly who knows them both and helped arrange this date.

“Actually, no. I specifically forbade her and Lestrade from telling me anything about you. I prefer to use my own eyes and ears.”

“Oh, right. That’s what you do, don’t you? Mike said you’re a detective.” He looks up as the waiter hands the wine menu to Sherlock.

“I thought we’d share a bottle,” his date says. “Perhaps you’d like to look at the menu before we decide.”

“I’m not so picky, so please choose whatever you like.”

Sherlock asks for a moment, and the waiter promises to return and answer any questions they have. John doesn’t usually dine in restaurants where the menu would prompt questions or discussions of appropriate wines. He knows red wine or white wine, sweet or dry, and that’s the extent of it. He decides that if there’s a special on the menu tonight, he’ll have that, whatever it is, and take whatever wine the waiter suggests.

Sherlock is silently scrutinising the menu. At least he’s not scrutinising John, who is trying to figure out what they might talk about. His date seems like a man not given to small talk. He probably knows all about literature, art, music— posh things. John doesn’t have anything to say about those.

“Have you eaten here before?” John asks. He wonders if he should have said _dined._ It’s a very nice restaurant, the kind where people _dine_ , where waiters hover inconspicuously, stepping forward at the merest quirk of an eyebrow or subtle nod in their direction.

“No.” Sherlock doesn’t look up.

John is hungry; he hasn’t eaten much for the last week because there was a glitch with his pension being deposited. Tea and toast have been his go-to meal, alternating with noodles. He’s sure he looks awful, his skin grey and his eyes puffy.

His stomach growls. Sherlock looks up.

“Sorry.” He tugs at his collar. Ties are an abomination.

“I haven’t been here before,” Sherlock says, setting down the menu. “I’ve heard good things about it, though.”

John tries to think of a reply to this, but his mouth is dry. He should have asked for water.

The waiter returns and lists the specials. Sherlock insists that John order first. The fish special sounds all right, but he’s sure that they don’t serve it with chips here. “I’ll have the salmon.”

“What temperature?”

“Excuse me?”

The waiter gives a half-smile, an almost-smirk. “It’s served seared, on a lemon-dill risotto.”

“Oh. Whatever the chef recommends.” He says this quickly, trying to look like he knows what he’s doing.

Sherlock frowns at the waiter. “I think my companion would prefer it cooked through, medium. I’ll have the same.” He opens the wine menu, and after a brief discussion says, “The Semillon, if it’s not too dry. Bring us some bread. And water, please.”

That sorted, John sighs involuntarily. He feels a bit light-headed. “So, how did you know I was a doctor?”

“I made an inference. Molly is not very social, and most of the people she knows are doctors. And you must have trained at Barts with Stamford.”

“She must have told you I was in the army. There’s no way you could—”

“She did not. But clearly you’ve recently returned from military service in… No, don’t tell me. Afghanistan.”

“That’s right! How—“

“Your face is tanned, as are your hands. When you tugged at your collar, I could see that your neck is pale. Above your wrists as well. So, you’ve been serving abroad, not sunbathing. Wounded in action. Only two possibilities: Iraq or Afghanistan.”

“How did you know it was Afghanistan?”

“Odds. No recent casualties in Iraq. They’re getting ready to pull out. More troops are currently in Afghanistan.”

“You knew I was a captain.”

“Given that you’re a medical doctor, it seemed likely. Captain is the starting rank for doctors; you were not in service long enough to receive a promotion.”

“So, you guessed.”

Sherlock shrugs. “An informed hypothesis.”

Bread arrives at the table. John eagerly takes a piece. Sherlock passes him the butter. He applies it liberally and takes a bite.

“Divorced,” Sherlock says. “Or separated. Since your return.”

John almost chokes on his bread, reaches for his water glass. “How?”

“Your hand. It still shows the indentation from your wedding ring. She had an affair while you were gone. You wore the ring for a few weeks, thinking you might reconcile, but now you’ve clearly put it behind you, or you wouldn’t be here tonight, on a date.”

“That’s… amazing. I didn’t realise I was such an open book. But how do you know I didn’t cheat on her?”

“A hunch, based on what I know about Mike Stamford. No matter how good a friend he is, he wouldn’t arrange a date for someone who had treated his wife poorly.” He looks down at his plate. “Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Were you, erm, recently in a relationship?”

Sherlock makes a scoffing sound. “No. You might say I’m married to my work. No time for—“ He seems to realise what his words are suggesting. “My habits are rather retiring.”

Suddenly understanding that he is the one being set up, John falls silent. Maybe Sherlock owed Molly a favour. Maybe he lost a bet with Lestrade. Something like that…

“I married too early,” he volunteers. “Before I knew who I was. Almost dying made me realise… a lot of things.” Immediately he wonders if this is too much information for a blind date. Well, he might as well say it; Sherlock has probably already deduced it.

“You decided to acknowledge that you’re bisexual.”

His eyes widen, but then he nods. “Yeah. When I was wounded. One of the things I realised then. Time to be honest with myself. And when I came back, things were different.”

Sherlock gives him a half-smile. “You didn’t know about the affair until you came back. She probably didn’t want to say because you’d been wounded, so she kept it from you, thinking she’d tell you when you’d healed. Meanwhile, she kept seeing the other man secretly. You found out accidentally and that was what precipitated the separation.”

“How do you—“ John shakes his head, smiling. “Never mind. I wish I’d seen it as easily as you just deduced it.”

“Very few people notice things that are so close.”

Conversation suddenly feels like too much. He wishes he had just stayed home in his dreary flat and watched an old movie, or read a book, or anything. It’s not as if he’s outed himself; it was understood that neither of them are straight. He just isn’t used to talking about it. In a fit of desperate honesty, he’d told Mike, and— well, here he is. He’s never been on a date with a man, and if the last twenty minutes are any indication, he’s rubbish at being gay.

The food arrives, and for several minutes they are tasting and checking to see that their food is properly done. The waiter refills their glasses and asks if they’d like a second bottle.

“Of course,” John says. He knows he’s been drinking a bit too much since he returned. He’s spent several evenings on the phone, arguing with his sister, and he bought a fairly pricey bottle of scotch to console himself about everything— his cheating wife, his ruined career, his unreasonable sister, his inadequate pension, and the unrelenting pain in his leg that’s really all in his head. But his purse is tighter now, and he hasn’t had a drink in a week, not even a pint of beer. Tonight he feels like he deserves a glass. Or two.

Suddenly he realises that he has no money to pay for this meal. _Stupid, stupid._ His wallet is empty and his bank account doesn’t have enough to cover what looks like will be a very expensive meal. As a man, he has always picked up the tab on dates, but there was no discussion about who would pay when tonight was arranged. He assumes they will split the bill since neither of them did the asking. Even so, he won’t have enough to cover his own meal. That will be embarrassing.

_Fuck_. He should have asked Harry. He hates asking her for anything, with her life such a tangled skein already. She might have given him some money, but he was too proud to ask.

When he looks up, Sherlock is studying him again. John cuts into his fish and tastes it.

“This is delicious,” he says. _Fuck._ He was so nervous coming here that he didn’t even check the prices on the menu. Maybe there weren’t prices. It’s _that_ kind of restaurant, where you don’t ask prices because you wouldn’t be dining there if you couldn’t afford it.

His date is gorgeous, he decides. Not classically handsome,, but there is something ethereal about Sherlock that awes him. An hour ago, he would have said that _ethereal_ was not his type, but now he realises that he fancies the man sitting opposite him. Ethereal, but not _effete_. A true original, a man who knows what he likes and doesn’t like, what he wants and what he rejects. Obviously went to the best schools, but not a snob. He’s trying, John can see. This only deepens his humiliation.

Well, it’s obvious there won’t be another date, or going back to his flat for a drink, so John will simply enjoy looking at him, bask in the attention Sherlock is trying to give him.

They eat, making occasional comments about the food. John doesn’t particularly like the salmon, which is dry, but eats every bite on his plate, then looks up and sees that Sherlock has eaten some of the risotto and about half of the fish. He wonders if there was something else on the menu he preferred, but decided to order the same as John to put him at ease. Maybe neither of them really enjoyed the food, which will undoubtedly cost as much as John receives weekly from the government.

Sherlock motions to their waiter, mutters something to him when he comes over.

“Very good, sir,” the man says.

John declines any afters, but Sherlock insists. “I chose this restaurant mostly based on the dessert menu,” he admits with a little smile. “I’m afraid I have a sweet tooth. The dark chocolate mousse cake is supposed to be heavenly. You must try it.”

It is. He eats every bite, even though his stomach is protesting the sudden deluge of heavy food. Abruptly he senses that he’s surpassed his limit of food and drink, and excuses himself to go to the mens’ room. Once he’s taken care of the cramping in his gut, he washes his hands and stares at himself in the mirror.

He’s thirty-four years old, and his hair is already showing strands of grey. His face looks shiny now, sweaty with enduring the pain from his gut and his shoulder. Under the lights of the restroom, his suit looks terrible. A man who looks like Sherlock Holmes should be mortified to be seen with him.

He splashes his face with water, uses a paper towel to wipe away the shine. It’s not much of an improvement. Closing his eyes, he imagines for a moment that he and Sherlock hit if off, and there’s another date, that they begin _dating_ (and how odd that sounds, to be dating a man!), and that Sherlock introduces him as his—

It’s too soon. He doesn’t know how to do this, how to look at a man or think about a relationship with one. For over ten years he’s been someone’s husband, someone’s father, a doctor, a soldier. Most of that is gone now. It’s time to start over, be someone new.

He takes his cane and exits the restroom. As he limps back to the table, he sees Sherlock handing his credit card to the waiter.

“Sherlock, I can—“

“It’s fine.” Sherlock holds up a hand. “My pleasure.”

The waiter returns for his signature. John waits, trying to tamp down his embarrassment. This will not be the final humiliation; they will leave together, and the end of the evening must be acknowledged before John can go home and wallow in a mixture of misery and mortification.

Then they head outside and stand on the pavement for a moment, neither of them sure how to end it. John thanks him profusely for the food, the wine, the evening. “It was very nice meeting you,” he says as they stand at the kerb.

“My pleasure.” Sherlock smiles and gives a little bow.

Neither of them says anything about doing it again.


	2. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is told in alternating POV, the horizontal line indicating a POV shift.

John wakes up with a headache and gut pain. He hasn’t anything but paracetamol in the flat, so he takes that. For most of the day he lies on his bed and tries not to think about last night. He doesn’t check his bank balance or call his sister. More bad news is the last thing he needs.

Since his return to London, he’s struggled to find his feet. He has no job, just a limp and a therapist. All his friends have moved on while he was gone. Some are married now, with jobs and children and houses in the suburbs. Once, he had all of those things, but now that’s a world he no longer fits into.

When he sees happy little families in the park or at the shops, he remembers how hard he fought for that life at a time when he could barely afford to support himself. Accepting responsibility, he refused to fail. Those days were often tough, crowded with work and studies, followed by nights of broken sleep. He remembers how he used to walk the floor at night, trying to lull Rosie to sleep while he memorised his class notes. He was lucky, he told himself: he had a healthy daughter, a marriage that worked, and a chance at a medical career. He’d gone to university, been accepted into medical school, the first one in his family to have more than a basic education. He would have a life his parents couldn’t even imagine.

But the luck he once took for granted has left him.

When he thinks about Mary, he’s angry. She was the one who insisted on marrying when they found she was pregnant. He’d never wanted all of that, wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility. Even so, he’d shouldered the blame, taken a vow, and done his best. In the long run, all it had gotten him was a letter. _Dear John…_

Her confession shocked him. He’d received it at Bastion, read it, and gone to work, patching up boys who would return to faithful wives and grateful children. That was the day he’d been shot. Maybe his brain had only so much attention it could spread around, and the letter was taking up valuable focus.

The words, written in Mary’s careful, rounded script: _It’s not your fault. I take full responsibility for what I’ve done and am sorry to have to break it to you like this, in a letter, but I have to be honest. I didn’t intend to meet someone else, but I have. Maybe we were just too young…_

When he woke up in the base hospital, he learned that he’d almost died. They described the damage to his shoulder, and he understood what it meant. The loss was complete, then: his wife, his marriage, his daughter, his career, his health, his future.

And he made a resolution: no longer would he live by other people’s expectations or rules. He would be himself and not apologise for who he was. Luck was meaningless and fickle. He was ready to rely on himself. Though he’d never seen himself as a person who failed, failure would not be the end. It might even be a good lesson. He returned home, uncertain what his life would be, but ready to move on.

The flat he moved into was tiny and impersonal, obviously meant to be temporary. He hoped it would be, but it was hard to see how he could afford anything better. He wanted to stay in London, but still close enough to see his daughter. Mary had kept the house she chose once they could afford it, about a thirty minute drive from London. He wouldn’t likely run into her in town. He’d take the train out to see Rose once a week or so.

His new life was physical therapy twice a week, talk therapy once a week, and little money to do much else. After three weeks, he was certain that he was going mad.

That was when he’d run into Mike.

They had lunch, and then a few drinks. Soon he was pouring out all of his misadventures, bitterly confessing that he wished he’d never married, that he wouldn’t make that choice if he had it to do over, and that he was ready to move on, even if it meant starting over from scratch.

Mike listened. He was a quiet man, perceptive and kinder than most people. _Are you thinking about dating?_

He’d laughed at that. _Who’d want to date me?_ No, he was done with women.

 _What about men?_ Mike had asked.

It shocked him, really, to be asked just like that. Was it written on his face? Was it something about his voice, or the way he glanced around the room?

It was a side of himself that he’d always known was there, but it wasn’t something he had ever brought out into the light and examined. He liked women, so he dated them. But he looked at men. Was that normal?

Lying in hospital for weeks had given him a lot of time to think about this. It was normal, he’d decided. Maybe it even explained his failed marriage, in part. He’d been trying so hard back then, trying to fit in, please his family, do what he was expected to do. He remembered telling his dad that he’d gotten his girlfriend pregnant. Instead of being disappointed, his father had clapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him, as if it was a greater accomplishment than being the first in their family to go to university.

He loved his daughter and couldn’t imagine not having her. She was the only good thing to come out of his ill-fated marriage. She was part of both Mary and him, and that couldn’t be changed.

But he could change. Why not? Nothing in his life had worked out the way he planned. Maybe it was time to figure out what he really wanted.

Mike was giving him a sympathetic smile. The server delivered two more pints.

_What about men?_

He smiled. _Why not?_

And Stamford told him about his friend. _Molly and I have been trying to talk him into dating someone. He’s not very social, but I think you’d like him._

When his thoughts get the better of him, a fever-flash of shame washes over him. He remembers how he managed to appear an absolute idiot during dinner with a beautiful and fascinating man, who was no doubt so bored he couldn’t wait to get out of the restaurant. John could not have appeared more pathetic. Why would a handsome, posh, brilliant man be interested in a pitiful, broken veteran? With horror he remembers the look on Sherlock’s face as he hobbled towards the table, cane in hand, his polite disdain as they parted at the kerb.

Mike and Molly were just being kind. It wasn’t Sherlock who needed a date. They could see how pathetic John is, and were trying to fix him up. Sherlock was only doing it as a favour to them. He could clearly have any man he wanted. Why would he choose a pathetic, boring, damaged army doctor?

The more he thinks, the worse he feels. He gets up from the bed and splashes his face with cold water, looks at himself in the mirror.

 _Whatever happened to the handsome young man who wanted to be a doctor?_ He remembers women used to flirt with him. It was flattering to be considered a catch by pretty girls at uni, and now he wonders if that flattery had led him to think he was straight. Mary had certainly flirted, aggressively. He remembers the night he took her out to a fancy restaurant, the best he could afford, and picked out a bottle of wine from the list. He was nineteen, and he felt like a man, doing adult things. She looked at him like he’d hung the moon.

His date last night was an awful parody of that long-ago evening. Instead of being desirable, he’d been an object of pity. Instead of flirtation, there were awkward pauses and short conversations. He is no longer the one sought; he has become the one friends feel sorry for, try to pair up with anyone they know who is still single. Next will be the divorced women, complete with children. He doesn’t want that. Not a woman, not someone else’s kids.

He wants his own life, to be who he was once meant to be, but he’s struggling just to get out of bed each day. Many days he wonders if it’s even worth it.

Deeply sunk in these thoughts, he startles when someone bangs on his door.

* * *

As he sits drinking his morning tea, Sherlock thinks about John Watson. Even without much prior experience, he knows that their date was a disaster.

So many mistakes. He was deducing things without being asked, even before he had completely sussed out the man. Lestrade had warned him about that. The man was ill-at-ease, uncomfortable, and felt like he was being judged.

And he could tell that John didn’t really like the salmon, but was just being polite. He obviously wanted something not on the menu, but was embarrassed to ask, and Sherlock had ordered the same to put him at ease because he didn’t really want anything but the mousse cake.

John wasn’t well even before he sat down. Recuperating from his injuries, he has clearly lost a lot of weight in recent months. He seemed hungry, but as he ate his dinner, he became uncomfortable, which suggests that he hasn’t been eating well lately. The meal was too heavy for him. Financial troubles, Sherlock had deduced. He’s probably been living on instant noodles and canned beans. And he saw the moment when it occurred to John that there would be a bill for the meal which he would not be able to pay. His face paled, and he looked unwell, excused himself from the table.

Sherlock has no idea how to respond to all this information. As he looks back at his own behaviour, he can see that he was polite but cool, maybe even distant. Reserve is his natural armour, and he didn’t let it down the entire evening. He winces now, thinking of the chilly goodbye on the kerb.

At least he’d managed not to tell him his limp was psychosomatic. He’s quite sure the man would have simply walked out if he’d said that.

He reminds himself that he only agreed to the date because Lestrade was so insistent, and Molly, poor girl, seems pathetically invested in his romantic future, even if it’s not meant to be with her. The truth is, he couldn’t think of a reason not to do it, and now he can see all the ways in which it was a bad idea.

Most of all, he wishes it hadn’t gone so very badly.

John must be regretting that it ever happened. He’s a proud man, a soldier and a doctor. Sherlock recognises that he has a bit of a military kink, but there is more about the man that intrigues him.

John Watson has been closeted for years. Perhaps he’d indulged in some same-sex activity while in the service, but his only serious relationships have been with women. He married young, and now his wife has left him. No doubt his near-death experience has prompted him to reconsider his orientation, and Sherlock is his test case. He hasn’t fully explored this side of himself, but now he is open to feeling things for another man.

With sudden certainty, Sherlock knows he wants to be that man. He wants to know John Watson, and to explore those things with him.

It’s terrifying.

At nine he heads over to Barts to pick up some liver samples from Molly. She’s texted him twice, reminding him that she can’t hang on to them forever, that if he wants them he’d better come by today. He knows that this is just a pretext for her real agenda: deconstructing his blind date with John.

“How did it go?” She’s barely suppressing her glee, Sherlock can see, no doubt already sure that it went well. A persistent optimist, she cannot begin to imagine the things that went wrong.

“You know I’m not good at things like that.” He can hear how defensive he sounds, and feels sorry that he can’t deliver better news. “I suppose he told Mike all about it.”

“I haven’t heard anything. Why? What happened?”

“I told you— I’m no good at things like that.”

“Sherlock.” She’s looking at him, not with pity (he knows what that looks like), but with something else. She’s been where he was last night, probably more than once. Terrible dates that made her feel inadequate, unacceptable, all wrong. It’s sympathy he sees.

He sighs. “It was awkward. Miserable.”

“You didn’t like him?”

“I _did_ like him.” Unlike Sherlock, who wards off people like a curse, John is the sort that people automatically like, without even considering whether they do. “I’m just not a social person.”

“What did you say to him?” Her eyes are narrowed, already judging him. Well, she knows Sherlock.

“Nothing. I mean, we never got beyond small talk. Maybe I need lessons in how to behave on a date.”

“John is a lovely person,” she says. “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you’re thinking.”

“You weren’t there.”

“You can be very charming. I’m sure he liked you.”

“Well, we won’t ever know, will we? Unless you and Mike already have our second date planned.”

She clasps her hands together and makes a _squeeing_ sound. “Do you want us to plan it?”

“No.”

“What are you afraid of, Sherlock?” Her voice is soft now, not accusing. “I just want to understand.”

“As I explained to you and Mike last week, relationships are not my area. People tolerate me, at best. People want to _date_ me. They don’t fall in love with me.”

“Don’t they?”

“Not unless they’re delusional.”

Her silence tells him he’s made a blunder. Of course. Molly was in love with him, though she seems mostly over that now.

“Molly, I didn’t mean—“ he sighs. “Don’t you see? I deduce things, and say them aloud, never thinking of how people might hear them. I drive people away.”

“You didn’t drive me away.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to this. Molly has serious self-esteem issues, which have doomed practically every relationship she has attempted. She has an eye for men who are arrogant, demeaning, and superior, generally ignoring the solid, steady men who look at her with admiration. He knows he was cruel to her, and her interest in seeing him with someone, even if it can’t be her, is more than he deserves.

“You’re very loyal, Molly, but I’ve made countless mean-spirited remarks to you. The fact that you still consider yourself my friend is a credit to you, not me. I am not worthy of your concern.”

“Of course you are,” she says. “You say mean things because you’re defensive. Words slip out because subconsciously you want to drive people away. You never let anyone close enough to see the real you.”

“I don’t even know what that means, Molly. I am who I am. And that, apparently, is not enough.”

She lays a hand on his arm. “Sherlock, it was one date. Fifty percent of all blind dates are disasters.”

“You’re making that up.”

She smiles. “Doesn’t change my point. Not all blind dates are disasters, and one bad date isn’t the end of the world. Give him another chance.”

“Why?”

“Because you like him. And I’m pretty sure he likes you, too. Just ask him. Meet him for lunch. Everybody eats, right?”

He shakes his head. “No more restaurants. That wasn’t me that he met. I don’t even know who I was last night, but it didn’t resemble me at all.”

“Well, you could invite him along to a crime scene.” Her grin tells him this is a joke.

“Very funny, Molly.”

“So take him to a movie, or for drinks, or— dancing.”

“He walks with a cane. I don’t think dancing is something he’d enjoy.”

“I don’t know— a museum. A concert. Doesn’t matter. Just ask him, Sherlock. I’m sure he’ll say yes.”

 _You would say yes,_ he thinks. He’s not sure about John.

He takes his liver sample home and tosses it in the refrigerator, promising himself that he’ll make slides later. Then he plonks himself in his chair with a cup of tea and thinks.

Mrs Hudson brings up his mail. Nothing interesting, of course, just bills. A fund-raising letter from his old school. He motions that she should just leave them on the table.

Instead of leaving, she sits in the chair opposite him. “How was your date, love?”

“And just how do you know that I was on a date, Mrs Hudson?”

“You looked very nice when you left last night. All dressed up.” She shrugs. “Of course, you always look nice. But you were nervous. That’s not usual for you. So tell me, what is he like?”

“Army doctor, invalided home. Has a limp and a tremor in his left hand.”

“You describe him as if he’s a suspect,” she says. “What kind of person is he? Did you get on? Will you see him again?”

“He’s— I suppose he’s a bit depressed. Mike thinks he needs to get out more, meet people. No doubt he agreed to the date because he felt obligated. I imagine he was disappointed.”

“Why would he be disappointed? You’re a lovely person, Sherlock. You have your moments, of course, but you’re really a very kind person. And you notice things about people. I know you wouldn’t have been rude to him, seeing he was depressed. ”

It surprises him to hear himself described as _kind._ “People don’t like me.”

“That’s because you never give them a chance to like you. You really should think better of yourself, you know. You deserve a nice young man.”

“And he deserves someone better than me.”

She get up from the chair, begins to gather up the dishes he’s left all over the room. “That’s for him to decide, whether he wants to see you. And you’ll never know if you don’t ask him.”

He sighs. “To be honest, I’m not sure I can survive the humiliation, Mrs H.”

“Oh, pooh. You’re a man who runs after criminals without a second thought, and you’re not brave enough to risk another date? Ask him.”

_Ask him._

He spends the afternoon unpacking boxes, making himself at home in his new flat. Mrs Hudson has been kind enough to give him a discount, but he worries a bit about pulling in enough fees to keep up the rent. His income tends to be irregular. His landlady has enough to live on without his rent, but he shouldn’t take advantage of her just because she owes him. It’s a fully furnished flat, and though the furniture is somewhat eclectic, he feels grateful not to have to shop for such things. This could be more than a place to stay; it could be his home.

He wants to live here. And he is not averse to living here with another person, but finding that person is likely to be more challenging than finding a life partner, someone who _completes him as a person._ He scoffed at Lestrade’s ideas about that, but has to admit that sometimes he wonders what it’s like for people who believe they’ve found that. Delusional, he’s always assumed. But maybe happier. Married people have longer lifespans, and while Sherlock has always assumed he would not survive to see his thirtieth birthday, that birthday and a couple more have passed, and here he is, looking at a flat, thinking about making it a home.

 _Home isn’t a place,_ he mother once said; _it’s people._ She said this because he was complaining about coming home from uni, telling her that since he would no doubt spend the entire holiday in his room, what difference would it make if he came back to the house where he grew up?

He looks around the flat, the tacky, faded chairs, the faded wallpaper, the worn carpet, and he feels comfortable. But he needs a flatmate to afford it.

Who would this person be, ideally?

A person who doesn’t mind his silences. An introvert, perhaps.

Someone who will tolerate the things that help him cope. Not the drugs; he's given that up. But the violin, the pacing and talking to himself, the irregular hours. Most people have tidier lives; they eat and sleep at regular hours. Having a flatmate who plays his violin at all hours, who takes up space with experiments and leaves clutter all over ( _who has time to tidy up when there's a murder to solve?_ ) — this demands an unusually tolerant person.

Someone who won't be put off by his work, who won't object to the things he uses the veggie crisper for, who won't think he's a psychopath because he enjoys solving murders.

The chances of finding such a person seem slim.

He thinks about the man who sat across from him last night, embarrassed that he has to use a cane, quietly seeking to fit into a world that has no idea what he’s been through. He tolerated Sherlock, which is more than most people do. Maybe he could even learn to like living with him. Obviously money is tight for him, and he has no one he can ask for help.

Looking around the flat, he can imagine John sitting in _that_ chair, the squashy red one, drinking a cup of tea. Sherlock will have to make an effort to clean up all the mess that now surrounds him, and probably warn him about the violin.

Maybe he can talk John Watson into seeing him again under less stressful conditions. It doesn’t have to be a date, just a chance to talk.

Or maybe it could be a date. It’s true that everyone eats. Perhaps he could take John to Angelo’s. He might enjoy that more than the place they went last night. Should he give him a few days? What is the etiquette of calling someone after a blind date? The first date was planned by other people; this time, either he or John will have to do the asking. Sherlock paid for the first date, so John might ask him. But if John is having money troubles, he will be reluctant to do the asking, having observed Sherlock’s expensive taste in dining. And maybe he doesn’t even want to see Sherlock again.

Maybe he should call him just to get a sense of whether this is even possible.

If it is possible, he will have to be himself this time. There is no point in pursuing a relationship, either as flatmate or something more, with someone who doesn’t know what he’s really like. That is the purpose of dating, Molly says, to get to know a person before you decide it’s a relationship.

But the things he enjoys doing are not everyone’s cup of tea. He likes playing his violin, but that doesn’t allow for much conversation. He enjoys chemistry, doing experiments. That requires extreme concentration. Again, not much talking. A concert might be a possibility, if he chooses the right kind of music. Does John like classical music? He has no idea.

Maybe he should have thought this out before the first date. He might have questioned John and planned the second date before the first was over.

He’s just placing the skull on the mantel when Lestrade comes charging up the stairs.

“We’ve got another one,” he says.

He studies Lestrade for a moment. “What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?”

Anderson is on forensics, though, and that is never good.

“I’ll follow in a cab,” he says. “Don’t let Anderson touch anything yet.”

Lestrade hurries back down the stairs; the door slams behind him. Sherlock grabs his coat and scarf and heads down, hollering to Mrs Hudson that he’ll be home late and might need some food.

Halfway down the stairs he stops, foot in midair.

Mrs Hudson comes out of her flat. “Sherlock?”

“Oh,” he says. “Yes. Of course.”

“What is it?”

“He’s a doctor. An army doctor.” He runs down the remaining stairs. “Mrs Hudson! He’s a doctor!” He grabs her and plants a kiss on her forehead.

“Who are you talking about, dear?”

“Army doctor!” He’s out the door.

The block where John Watson lives is dismal, a honeycomb of tiny cells with single occupants. Sherlock walks down a poorly-lit hallway that smells of dampness and old cooking grease. These are flats where people live because they have no other choices. In one of these cells, John Watson is probably preparing tea and toast for his supper, or maybe a packet of instant noodles. No one would willingly live like this unless they were desperate.

Mike gave him the address only because he pleaded with him and insisted that he wasn’t stalking the man, trying to solve him like a crime. In truth he is, but that’s only part of why he is here, about to pay a call on a man who probably would be happy never to see Sherlock Holmes again, or even hear his name.

He pictures the man who limped towards him across the restaurant wearing an ill-fitting suit, obviously his best. He remembers how he’d held his head high, his posture straight in spite of needing to lean on the cane. Only his eyes betrayed his distress.

He stands in front of the door for a moment. Inside, a spring squeaks. Lying in bed, then. He knocks.

Stocking feet cross the floor to the door; then silence. Sherlock imagines him looking through the peephole to see who it is, and he draws a steadying breath, hoping that John will decide to give him another chance.

“Sherlock.” John is wearing pyjamas; he tugs his robe closed and ties the sash. _Didn’t get dressed today._

“Hello, John. May I come in for a moment?”

John’s face does something subtle. He’s surprised, but something else. Disappointed? Annoyed? Embarrassed? He looks at Sherlock, glances back into the flat, and then nods. “Yeah, sure.”

The flat looks very neat to Sherlock, but it’s depressing how few personal items are here. The closet is open, and he can see a few shirts and his only suit hanging inside. There is a laptop open on the bed, so perhaps he was looking at something. A paperback novel lies on the kitchen counter, alongside a plate of crumbs and an empty cup.

Some colour rises in John’s cheeks. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re a doctor. An army doctor.”

“Yes.”

“Any good?”

His voice is almost a whisper as he looks down and replies, “Very good.” It’s as if he’s ashamed to boast. Ashamed of the man he’s become. Afraid that no one will ever believe who he used to be.

Seeing this, Sherlock’s tone gentles. “Seen a lot of injuries, then, violent deaths.”

John nods, his eyes far away. “Far too many. Enough for a lifetime.”

In those sea-dark eyes, Sherlock can see those injuries and deaths, the ones he couldn’t save and the ones who went home with visible wounds, permanent disabilities. The wound that John Watson bears is more than a hole in his shoulder that means he’ll never do surgery again. It’s more than the halting walk that people pity. It’s the nightmares that deprive him of sleep and the days when he has nothing to do, no one to talk to, no purpose for being here, alive.

“Would you… want to see some more?” It isn’t the question he wants to ask, but he doesn’t know what that is yet, the question that will unlock John Watson for him, the question that will let him take this man out of this dismal bedsit and into a murder investigation, which is where he belongs. Sherlock is certain that he belongs there, but he isn’t sure how to ask.

John is staring at him.

“There have been a series of suicides…” He glances at the open drawer beside the bed, sees dark metal there. _Another way out of this room_. “Suspicious suicides that are actually murders.”

“I saw it in the paper,” John says. “You say there’s been another?”

“Last night. And the victim’s left some kind of note. I would appreciate your help… if you would be so good. It’s likely to be… well, we know that it’s poison. Not pretty. Will you come with me?”

“Oh, god…” His eyes are distant for a moment. Then he looks right at Sherlock. “Yes. Yes, of course, I’ll come with you.”

Sherlock smiles. _The game is on_.


	3. Proving a Point

John climbs into the cab with Sherlock, not certain what he’s being asked to do. He’s thrown on a pair of jeans and a jumper, not having anything else clean to wear, and they’re on their way to the scene of a suicide that might be a murder. About that, he only knows what he’s read in the paper, which isn’t much.

“Why me?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

“Last night we were sitting in a expensive restaurant attempting awkward conversation. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Do you want to see me again?”

He heaves a sigh. “Sherlock, I know that Mike and Molly set me up with you because they feel sorry for me. You’re not obligated to another date.”

“This isn’t a date, John. It’s a crime scene.” Sherlock grins.

He smiles back. “I realise that. It’s just… I don’t need your pity. Anyone’s pity. So why am I here?”

Sherlock’s face, reflected in the window, shutters for a moment, but then he gives a rueful smile. “It’s me they pity, for reasons that must be clear to you by now. And I do feel obligated— to show you that I’m not the man you had dinner with last night. Maybe you won’t like who I really am, but I wanted you at least to know me, understand who I am and what I do, before you rule me out.”

 _Rule him out?_ Brilliant, beautiful— and he thinks John isn’t interested?

“So,” he says. “I still don’t understand. Why me? What do you know about me?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Let me borrow your phone.”

He watches as Sherlock taps at his phone, apparently sending a text to someone. He hands it back to John.

“What I know is this,” he begins, and then proceeds to tell John his family history, how he was wounded, why he limps, and what kind of person his brother is. Even if he’d spent last night looking John up, digging into what the internet knows about him, he couldn’t have found all that.

“That’s… brilliant,” he says, smiling to himself.

Sherlock frowns. “What did I miss?”

“You’re right about Harry. We don’t get on. A drinker, for sure. Getting a divorce for that reason, among others.”

“Spot on, then.”

“Harry is short for Harriet.”

Sherlock’s expression falls from triumph to exasperation. “ _Sister!_ It’s always something…”

“So, what am I doing here? This isn’t a date, you said. What is it then?”

“What do you think?”

“You want to make sure I know how brilliant you are so I’ll understand when you never call me again.”

“John, I have deduced the things I just told you about yourself. What can you deduce about me?”

John is silent for a moment, gazing idly at the neighbourhood they’re passing through. They’re on their way to a crime scene, one difficult enough that Scotland Yard is calling in an amateur to help them. But the Yard doesn’t consult amateurs, which means that Sherlock must be able to do to a crime scene what he just did to John, deducing his entire life from a phone.

Sherlock wants to impress him, he decides. Maybe just likes to show off, or maybe he doesn’t get much affirmation from the Yard. “You like what you do, and you’re good at it— good enough that Scotland Yard lets you help. Where are we going?”

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“And I’m a doctor. But how can I help? Doesn’t the Met have doctors, forensics specialists, pathologists?”

“They have idiots.”

“How do you know I’m not an idiot too?” Compared to Sherlock, John is reasonably sure that he is an idiot.

Sherlock looks at him and smiles. “You’re not.”

After they’ve ducked under the yellow tape, John can feel the waves of animosity coming off of these police officers, a chilly aura of disdain as soon as they enter the crime scene.

The cop at the tape, Sergeant Donovan, gives him a once-over. “Who’s this?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade invited me,” Sherlock replies. “This is my colleague, Doctor Watson.”

John shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and nods.

Donovan looks at John and back at Sherlock and smirks. “Right.” She speaks into her radio. “Freak’s here, with his _date_.”

She glares at Sherlock for a moment. He pointedly ignores her.

A grey-haired cop comes out of the building and approaches.

Sherlock greets him. “Ah, Lestrade. So where are we?”

“Upstairs.” DI Lestrade seems curious about John, too, giving him more than a cursory glance. “So, you’re John Watson.”

Before he can say anything, Sherlock interrupts. “Did you tell every one here, Lestrade? So much for keeping confidences.”

The DI shrugs. “Well, happy to see it’s working out. Come on up and have a look.”

The forensic tech lectures Sherlock about basic procedures. He wonders whether it’s professional jealousy, or something about Sherlock that has caused the hostility.

Over the next twenty minutes, John begins to understand what Sherlock does. He’s brilliant, amazing, deducing the last hours of the victim’s life from the smallest details— her coat, her stockings, her shoes, her makeup and hair, the dampness of her coat, the flecks of mud on her legs.

He’s arrogant, too, and John can see why he has rubbed so many people the wrong way. He paces, tossing out words and syllables, talking more to himself than anyone, occasionally barking a question at Lestrade. He closes the door on Anderson, the tech, wonders out loud about _funny little brains_ that can’t see what he sees.

“It was murder— not suicide,” Sherlock is saying. “Come on, where’s the suitcase?”

“There was no case,” the DI insists. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Someone else was here, and they took the case.”

“Maybe she checked into a hotel,” John suggests. “The case could be there.”

“No,” he says. “Look at her hair— Oh!” He breaks off and stares into space.

And before John can ask about the hair, Sherlock is off, running down the stairs, calling, “Pink!” as he goes.

Maybe this is the equivalent of his blind date crawling out the window of the restroom and leaving him with the bill, he thinks. Painfully he rises to his feet, removes the coverall he’d put on when he entered the room, and heads down the stairs. Sherlock is nowhere in sight. John isn’t sure where he’s gone.

Donovan glances at him, smug. “He’s gone.”

When she goes on to warn him that he’s taken up with a _sociopath_ who may one day get bored solving crimes and decide to murder someone for fun, John has already made up his mind. He has never seen an intellect like Sherlock’s in action, never felt so alive himself, and he completely understands why Scotland Yard treats him with disdain. Of course he seems like a freak to them; all they know is procedure; they don’t know what _brilliant_ looks like.

But the genius has left without his _date._ If this is a date, it’s the strangest one John has ever been on. He doesn’t know the rules for this situation. Is he supposed to text Sherlock, go looking for him, or just go home? He doesn’t have his address, his phone number, or any other way of finding him.

Going back to the bedsit seems like too much, but it’s dark now, and he isn’t familiar with the neighbourhood.

_What can you deduce about me?_

Aside from the man’s brilliance and his ability to rub people the wrong way, John hasn’t deduced much. People dislike Sherlock, insult him and call him _freak._ They warn him that Sherlock is a sociopath, but John puts that down to jealousy. They seem surprised that John would still be with him. And Sherlock has now disappeared, leaving him behind.

“You’re a dick,” John says aloud. “That’s what I’ve deduced, Mr Holmes.”

His phone buzzes, an incoming text from an unfamiliar number.

_Found the suitcase. SH_

_221B Baker Street. SH_

A couple of hours later they’re at a restaurant, this time a small Italian place called Angelo’s. They are ushered to a table near the window, which seems to be Sherlock’s usual spot. All of this is apparently part of some larger plan to catch a serial killer.

The owner comes around and says, “Anything you want, on the house. For you _and_ your date.” He hands them menus and smiles at John, nodding at Sherlock. “This man got me off a murder charge.”

John isn’t sure how to respond. _Congratulations?_ “That’s… good.”

Angelo smiles and claps John on his bad shoulder. “I’ll bring a candle. More romantic.”

When he leaves, John says, “Is this a date?”

“Do you want it to be?”

John thinks about how his day was going before Sherlock knocked on his door. It wasn’t going well, he recalls. He felt pitiful, old, useless. He’d taken a risk and it had failed, leaving him more depressed that before. He isn’t sure where his day would have ended, but the contrast to what has happened since Sherlock knocked on his door is almost incomprehensible. He’s seen a glimpse of a life that’s within his reach. He doesn’t know what Sherlock has in mind, but he is open to it, whatever it may be. Anything is better than slowly rotting away in a dreary flat, limping to therapy appointments and having no purpose. This excites him, reminds him why he went into emergency medicine, why he joined the army. Not just to be useful, but in pursuit of the rush that comes with risk. He needs this, desperately, if he is to stay alive.

Angelo returns with a candle, gives John a thumbs up, and walks away.

“Do you bring all your boyfriends here?”

Sherlock has been staring out the window. Now he turns and looks at John. “My boyfriends?”

“Angelo seems to know the routine. The candle. Free food. Is he trying to fix you up too?”

“Not at all. Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking. He went to prison for two years, but avoided the death penalty. He’s grateful, hence the free food.”

“And the boyfriends? It’s fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine. To be honest, I haven’t had time for romance. As I said, I’ve been married to my work. I never thought I needed more.”

“And now?” John licks his lips, avoids looking into those pale eyes. “Are you doing this just to get your friends off your back, so you can say you tried romance?”

“This…” Sherlock sighs. “John, I didn’t expect to like you, but I do. I don’t know what that means, or whether I even— I’m a difficult man to live with, let alone like. I wouldn’t blame you if you have no interest in me.”

Angelo sets a plate of lasagna down in front of John. He takes a bite and suddenly feels ravenously hungry. For a while he eats in silence. Sherlock is not eating or drinking, but watches the street intently.

John wipes his mouth, sets down his fork. “So, today… what has this been about?”

“Proving a point,” he replies. “As I said, last night I felt that we didn’t approach one another under ideal circumstances. Dates are awkward. Blind dates— well, that was the first blind date I’ve been on, and I think we can both agree that it wasn’t a roaring success. So I wanted to spend time with you and let you see who I am, before declaring it a failure.”

“You’ve already seen who I am.”

“In part. But the things that can be gleaned with the eye aren’t the most important things.”

“What are the important things?”

Sherlock sighs and looks out the window. It’s starting to get dark, the street lights coming on. “I haven’t much experience in this… this kind of thing. Dating. Romance. But I’m willing to try.”

John laughs. “Like an experiment, you mean?”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what a blind date is? The entire concept of dating people is experimental. We have an hypothesis that we will be compatible in some way. We test this by spending time together. We observe the results and draw conclusions.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry if that sounds rather clinical, but this is how my brain works.”

“No, you’re right.” John is smiling. “They say love is just chemistry.”

“Ah, but you’re more of a romantic than that, aren’t you, Doctor?”

He’s never thought of himself this way, but maybe that’s been his problem. He remembers the heady rush of dating, meeting someone new and imagining a future together. Now he thinks he knows what the problem was; he expected too much from women who seemed to provide what he was seeking. He’d done that with Mary, thinking that his doubts were just a normal part of the process. The chemistry was never there, and he thought he could create it by thinking himself into the relationship. And then, before he’d figured it out, they were parents, already drowning in responsibilities. The army was an escape from all that.

He’d seen how hard it was for Harry to tell their parents that she was gay. He wasn’t that sure about himself, and was unwilling to ruin the lives of his wife and daughter when he wasn’t even sure what he wanted.

Afghanistan made him sure. Getting wounded made him sure. He was not going to live his life trying to please everyone. It sounded trite, but he needed to figure out who he was. Maybe it was too early to jump into a relationship so soon after Mary, but opportunities don’t obey a schedule.

He wants this opportunity very much.

“I guess I am a romantic. I haven’t been very successful, either, though.” He smiles back at Sherlock, who is studying him a bit uncertainly. “I am open to the experiment.”

Sherlock’s attention is suddenly diverted back to the street. “There— that cab!” He grabs his coat. “Let’s go!”

He runs after Sherlock as if his life depends on it, which it may well do. John has not felt this alive in years. Even the chaos of Afghanistan didn’t fill him with this kind of joy. That’s what it is, he realises. _Joy_. Whether it’s the case, or chasing through the streets of London, or the man himself, John feels like he’s in love.

At Baker Street, they sit on the stairs, getting their breath back, giggling at the ridiculous thing they’ve just done. John looks up the stairs, towards Sherlock’s flat, and wishes that he had a place like this to call home.

“Will you?” Sherlock is looking at him as if everything depends on his answer.

“Will I…?”

“I need a flatmate. The landlady’s giving me a deal, so the rent won’t be much if we split it. Unless you’d like to go on living in that one-room purgatory.”

He grins. “Do you ask all potential flatmates out on blind dates?”

“I think we would get along,” he replies. “And no, I wasn’t looking for a flatmate. I wasn’t even looking for romance. And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” says John, smiling at him.

Sherlock’s eyes soften. “And here I am.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. Gradually, they move forward until their lips just touch.

Before it becomes more than a soft acknowledgement of whatever is filling the moment, someone rings the front bell.

Sherlock smiles. “Get that, will you? Then come on up and see the flat.”

John opens the door, shaking his head at his turn of fortune.

It’s Angelo, with his cane. “Sherlock texted me. Said you forgot this.”

“Erm. Thank you.”

Angelo waves and is off.

For a moment John stands holding the cane, looking at it as if it were some alien artefact. For months his leg has made it impossible to do more than painfully limp. His therapist has suggested that being shot in the shoulder, losing his ability to do surgery, has translated into a kind of body dysmorphia. He knows that she’s simply baffled. Therapy hasn’t helped, and all she can suggest is more therapy.

One evening with Sherlock Holmes, and he’s entirely forgotten about his leg.

He tosses the cane in the umbrella stand and heads up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

* * *

Sherlock stands in the parking lot of Roland-Kerr College, talking to Lestrade. He has a shock blanket, and he supposes he ought to be less coherent than he is. The blanket is distracting; it’s orange and linty. He doesn’t feel like he’s in shock. He feels like he’s been electrified, hooked up to a current that has poured life into him.

He’s describing to Lestrade the marksman who just saved his life. _A crack shot, a fighter, acclimatised to violence. A man of strong moral principle, a history of military service, nerves of steel…_

John is standing behind the police tape. Sherlock’s eyes come to rest on him, just for a beat. And he knows.

It’s unexpected. When he agreed to the blind date, he expected to put John off. People do not willingly spend time with Sherlock Holmes, and the date would be no different. He was surprised to find that he actually liked John, that he regretted how he’d acted at the restaurant. He isn’t used to regret.

He wanted John to know what he was really like, to see him for who he is. Now John has voluntarily spent an entire day with him, following him around, chasing cabs, leaping across rooftops, being left behind (twice)— and yet, here he is, patiently standing by a police car, waiting for Sherlock to notice him. He’s killed a man to save Sherlock. Why is he still here?

More importantly, what is Sherlock going to do about John Watson?

“Sherlock?” Lestrade is looking concerned now. “You were saying… _nerves of steel?_ ”

“Forget all that,” he tells Lestrade. “I’m in shock. See? Blanket.”

He walks over to John. _He killed a man tonight. He did it for me._

John shifts nervously. “I heard what happened. Dreadful business.”

“Good shot,” he says quietly.

“Yes. It was a good shot, wasn’t it?” John nods, avoiding his eyes.

“Are you all right, John?”

“Of course. You?”

 _Am I all right?_ He finds himself smiling as he thinks about this. He has always felt _all right._ The choices he’s made in life have been about keeping himself right, not giving in to sentiment, which always disappoints, or love, which hurts. Alone has protected him. _All right_ has always been enough.

Tonight, he realises that he feels something bigger, almost unimaginable. Something wordless and wonderful. John Watson is standing here, looking at Sherlock. He hasn’t left. He’s hung on for the entire crazy ride and now is looking as if he’s never had more fun. This is not the sad, limping man Sherlock met only a day ago. John is standing straight, a gun tucked in his back waistband, an innocent smile on his face. He’s not leaving.

“Let’s go home.”

They stand in the vestibule of 221B. It’s late; Mrs Hudson is in bed. John is leaning against the closed door, looking up at him. He is hesitant, but not timid. His eyes are soft. His tongue touches his upper lip, a signal. The way he’s looking at Sherlock makes it clear what he wants.

Sherlock could just say it. That’s how it used to be, back in the bad old days when it was only about sex, and what that could buy him. It’s not a fix that he needs. This is something new. He doesn’t just want to take this man apart and fuck him. He wants to seduce John, to make love to him, and god help him, he has no idea how to do that. He ought to say something, invite him in. Ask him. _Ask him_ —

“Have you figured it out?” John asks.

“The murder?”

“No. You asked me along today to prove a point, you said. About us. What have you deduced?”

“This.” He leans in and kisses John.

He feels John arch towards him, his mouth opening to Sherlock’s tongue. He places his hand behind John’s head, bringing them closer. Soon their bodies are pressing against one another, and Sherlock can feel the answer to his question. He wants to be every romantic cliche for John, to invent entirely new ways to love him.

“So,” John says when they break away to look at one another. He’s smiling, a genuine, happy smile, and Sherlock prays he will see that smile every day now, maybe even forever. “This?”

“This,” he says, his voice low and needy. “No more dates, John. Just _this_. Just… us.”

John undresses him, and then stands there, taking him in as if he were a work of art. “Gorgeous,” he whispers. “You’re so beautiful.”

“You, John,” he says. “I want to see you.”

He pulls off the ugly jumper and unbuttons his shirt. No flying buttons, struggling to get the cuffs undone. John is a careful man. Sherlock watches with amusement as he folds his shirt and jumper and lays them on the chair. He’s wearing an A-shirt, and Sherlock can see part of the scar he’s been imagining.

He smiles at Sherlock now, moving more slowly, teasing him a bit as he sees his interest. Finally the undershirt comes off and he can see it fully now, a starburst torn through his flesh and imperfectly healed. It’s startling, ugly, and magnificent. It’s an epic, an Iliad and an Odyssey, a man gone to war and still struggling to find his way home. Without this scar, John Watson would be another person, a man who never met Sherlock Holmes. He would still be in Afghanistan; he might never come home.

But here he is, unbuttoning his trousers and folding them, draping them over the back of the chair to avoid wrinkles. And where Sherlock expected standard white briefs, old and dingy with many washings, he sees a pair of bright red pants. John conceals himself beneath layers of ordinary, but at the bottom, he is a surprise.

What the pants conceal— well, barely conceal— is what Sherlock had deduced from his walk. John is not a small man.

He smiles at Sherlock a bit mischievously, toys with the waistband of his pants. “Wanna see some more?” he says.

“Oh, God, yes.” He reaches for John, who dances away, giggling. He’s seducing Sherlock, and enjoying himself tremendously. Sherlock loves this John, so sexy and playful. He hopes no one else notices the extraordinary man hidden beneath the boring jumpers and checked shirts and corduroy trousers. Red-pants John is his alone.

“Take them off,” he demands.

And John does.

When he finally has his hands on John, though, the first thing he explores is the scar. He feels its contours, studies the landscape the bullet carved into his shoulder and chest. Rolling John onto his belly, he touches the entrance wound on his back. Reverently, he kisses it.

Though diminished by weeks of illness and pain, John’s body is compact and muscular. Sherlock runs his hand over the lovely curves of his arse, feels the flat belly with the dusting of gold hair that grows there. His own body he considers less beautiful, gangly and too skinny, pale and dotted with the freckles he has always hated.

He’s never had sex with someone he loves. The only person he has loved until now was Victor, who was _not gay._ Victor, who left Sherlock when he found out that he _was_ gay, that he was in love with him. That broke things. They weren’t friends after that.

And the only people he’s made love with— well, it wasn’t love. It was just sex.

This is something entirely new, uncharted territory. Not an experiment, but a voyage of discovery.

He realises that he’s stopped responding when John says, “All right?”

“John.” He sounds like he’s pleading, like he’s asking for everything and has nothing to give in return. “John.”

“It’s all right,” John whispers. “We’ll take it slow.”


	4. Love, Hypothetically

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here comes the angst. Well, not serious angst. Mild anxiety, second thoughts, doubts. And Mycroft.
> 
> Alternating POV John and Sherlock, switch indicated by the horizontal line.

Sherlock sits in the kitchen, drinking his morning tea. He thinks about the man still asleep in the other room and feels a pang.

It’s regret, he realises. This is unfamiliar territory for him, waking up in bed with someone he cares about. He _does_ care about John, more than he ever expected to care about anyone. _But is this love?_ That’s what he can’t answer, and perhaps what’s making him uneasy.

It isn’t about the sex because, god, last night was perfect. And it isn’t about John, who is also perfect.

John Watson is good-looking in a normal, non-threatening way. He doesn’t startle people or cause them to turn their heads in horror. He is compact and, in spite of illness and injury, retains the athleticism of a youth spent on the rugby fields. He has perfect posture, a result of military training, and an expressive face that hides little. He is the exact opposite of Sherlock, who is angular, odd, disconcerting, and conceals everything. People smile at John. Sherlock’s smile makes people apprehensive.

This is not about John; it’s about himself, he realises.

Last night he asked John to be his flatmate. That relationship, sharing these rooms, might work out well. John doesn’t have any awful habits that Sherlock can deduce, and he seems a tolerant person. John and he might get along well, as flatmates. That much is fine.

There is an ocean of difference between sex and love, however. Sex, the part he thought could never happen, is the easy part, as it turns out. Two horny men with a common desire finding their way to bed— what could be difficult about that?

 _Is love necessary?_ It’s a philosophical consideration, but also a personal one. For Sherlock, it never has been necessary before, but now it seems like the burning question. It isn’t as if he can walk away. They share a flat. He can’t avoid seeing John. And he finds he doesn’t want to. He wants this to work, all of it.

But he has never been in a romantic relationship before, and though he’s always considered himself superior to people who let sentiment rule their brains, he is uncertain how to do this, afraid of ruining everything.

Sex is easy. Love is less certain.

It ought to be a gradual thing, like respect. It ought to be logical, to counterbalance the animal instinct that is sex. There are different kinds of love, and none of them seem to obey any rules. Sherlock accepts that he _must_ love his parents and his brother, just by virtue of who they are. That doesn’t mean he actually likes them, or that he would choose to spend time with them if that were not expected. Friends are people who have worn down the edges of his natural wariness, becoming so familiar that they no longer grate on him. He tolerates them. Friendship is just familiarity brought to a conscious level. It’s a choice to maintain familiarity.

But this. This is something new, and he can’t quite grasp its dimensions. It feels huge, and yet he can almost hold it in his hand. He wants it in a way he hasn’t ever experienced. Before, with other people, it was always one-sided, like a fantasy he kept playing in his mind. There was never an outlet for such feelings, so they remained as pure desire, never evolving into love.

But this is not a fantasy. There is something mutual here.

He isn’t used to John yet, doesn’t know if they will tolerate one another, but he wants that familiarity. Of course he wants the sex. He also wants to share breakfast with him, to sit with him in the evenings, reading or talking. He wants John beside him on every case. He wants to know everything about him. It’s a mystery how he can want that familiarity, and at the same time feel certain that he’ll never be bored by it. Familiarity tends to breed boredom, and eventually contempt. John will never be boring. 

The problem is this: Sherlock can’t be someone he is not. John must love him for himself, not the person he imagines him to be.

John could love him, he thinks. He can’t be sure; not a lot of words were said last night. Is it too soon? Maybe. It might be a beginning. An embryo with the potential to become… something. Maybe love. _Hypothetically_ , John loves him.

But love, hypothetical or not, isn’t something you can count on, in Sherlock’s experience. He has observed this many times. People change their minds. They meet other people and their feelings change. They leave.

“Good morning.” John is standing at the kitchen door, scratching his belly and ruffling a hand through his hair. He looks sleep-tousled, sated, beautiful. He leans down, kisses Sherlock lightly on the lips, and flicks on the kettle. “Anything on today?”

It’s all so homely, so comfortable, that tears fill Sherlock’s eyes. He blinks and looks away. There isn’t anything to say about last night. They’ll fall into a routine, and John will no doubt be put off by Sherlock’s experiments and the general messiness of the flat. Sherlock will try to do better, and will submit to being nagged because it’s _John_ , and he doesn’t want John to move out.

His flatmate is blinking sleepily at the kettle, his eyes half-lidded, waiting for the water to boil. He looks at Sherlock and smiles. “Anything?”

He smiles back. “Nothing at all.”

Sherlock has never enjoyed shopping, so when John points out that they are almost out of milk and there aren’t many teabags left in the box, he happily accepts his offer to go to Tesco and pick up a few things. Sherlock offers his card, but John tells him no, he just got his check and wants to start helping out with the bills. He refuses to be coddled, this army doctor.

Not even five minutes have elapsed before the bell downstairs rings. He hears Mrs Hudson answer it and greet the visitor, tell him (for it is a man) to go on up.

Mycroft, of course. Sherlock hasn’t said a word about the blind date or anything else about John, but his insufferable brother has no doubt deduced it all. He will have looked up John’s service record, his credentials, and all the details of his marriage. He’s probably surveilling John right now as he walks the few blocks to Tesco.

Mycroft knows better than to ask for tea. He takes a seat in what Sherlock now thinks of as John’s chair, crosses his legs, and studies his brother. Sherlock remains in his own chair, his legs drawn up to his chest, nursing a cooling cup of tea.

“Well?” Sherlock says. “Let’s get it over with, shall we?”

“I have concerns.”

“No surprise there. When have you not had concerns about me? While some may say you’re _protective_ of me and _isn’t that sweet_ , I say that you’re simply nosy, and have an irresistible urge to interfere in my life.”

“Really, Sherlock. A _blind date_? You, who have no idea how relationships work, embarking on one with a man who is not _gay_ , and not _divorced_?”

“He was most definitely gay last night,” Sherlock replies. “I assume his divorce is in the works. He’s been separated for weeks.”

“I’m only trying to spare you both. And I would not be so concerned if you were merely dating him. You have complicated matters, though, by inviting him to be your flatmate. It’s a bad idea. You have no clear path of retreat if it doesn’t work.”

“Why are you so sure that it isn’t going to work?”

“You’re thirty-two years old, Sherlock, an age by which most people have had several experiences in the area of romance. You are a novice. Novices make mistakes, by which they learn and eventually succeed.”

“I’m not a child, Mycroft. I will figure it out. John and I will be fine. Thank you for your advice. Now, leave.”

Mycroft stands. “Your doctor is a broken man, and still in the process of leaving his wife. Be careful. Under stress, wounded people retreat to familiar places and people, even if those are the people who have wounded them.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

He sits thinking after his brother leaves. He is reluctant to admit that he shares some of Mycroft’s concerns. Last night was brilliant; this morning he wonders if it’s too fast. That’s the danger of sentiment, he sees, but he isn’t about to let Mycroft rub his nose in it. And he doesn’t blame John for this; it was his decision as much as it was John’s to become flatmates and lovers after just one day together. If it can even be called a decision; it was instinct, the two of them gravitating towards one another, and all of it feeling so perfect, so familiar and right. And it still feels right. He will just have to be vigilant, see trouble coming before it arrives, keep John happy.

As the days go by, Sherlock relaxes a bit more. Cautiously, he decides that things are going well.

John comes along to crime scenes, pores over the evidence with him, discusses possibilities late into the night, and is always game for another chase. He’s a good doctor, has seen enough blood and gore that even the worst crime scenes don’t faze him. Sherlock tries to remember not to call him an idiot. Almost everyone is, but it’s not something you say to your colleague. Or flatmate.

Especially not when he is also your lover.

John wakes up in a good mood these days, his leg painfree and his shoulder with less stiffness. He smiles in the mornings and kisses Sherlock, even if they haven’t brushed their teeth. He tolerates midnight violin playing and experiments in the kitchen (though he does prefer not to see body parts in the fridge). There are small bumps, minor misunderstandings, but they seem compatible. John brings out better qualities in Sherlock, and in return, Sherlock has let down his guard, something he rarely does.

Maybe that pang of regret was just a natural reaction to change.

Maybe he can keep John, if he just pays attention.

_He thinks about what it would be like to have a partner for life. He hasn’t considered retirement or old age, but since he has survived to the ripe old age of thirty-two, he might need to give some thought to that. It’s hard to imagine, but someday he might retire._

_He imagines himself an old man, maybe a bit arthritic, too old to chase down criminals, but his brain still active. He pictures a cottage somewhere, maybe Sussex. Bee hives. There would be time for many things then, the monographs he’s always intended to write, the experiments…_

_He’s out tending his hives, listening to his bees hum. Inside the cottage, someone is making tea, putting sandwiches on two plates. In a few minutes he’ll stand at the door, waving to Sherlock, calling him inside…_

_At night, they sleep side by side, wrapped around each other_.

Sherlock is at Barts, looking at a slide he’s just prepared in order to examine changes in tissue caused by post-mortem bruising. He’s not really focused on what he’s seeing, though. He’s thinking about waking up with John’s arms around him.

It’s still a new thing, but he has decided he likes it. Yes, definitely. John sleeps a lot more than he does, which gives Sherlock time to lie in bed and watch him sleep.

 _Lovers_. Sleeping and waking together, their bodies touching under the bedding. Sometimes he feels like a person who’s been starving and is now having real food for the first time in years. It startles him when John plants a kiss on his forehead or the back of his neck in passing, but he looks forward to it, and begins to plant a few kisses of his own. The first time John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s as they were leaving a crime scene, his heart began to beat faster. He expected to hear jeers from Lestrade’s team, but no one remarked. It’s normal, he decides. For once, _Sherlock_ is normal.

Having sex with John is a revelation. Sherlock has never been _cuddled_ so much. He’s no virgin, but sex has never been anything but a craving that must occasionally be indulged. There’s some body shame, after years of being called weird-looking and skinny and alien. All those words were small arrows that have left invisible scars. John’s appreciation of his body— all of it— amazes him.

Of course he loves John’s body: his flat belly, the way he broadens from the waist up to strong shoulders. His scar is fascinating. He’s hairier than Sherlock, but it’s all golden, darkening as it descends towards his groin. And he’s become familiar with every aspect of John’s thick cock, flaccid or hard, aroused or spent. He loves the way John’s breath hitches when he touches it, how it firms in his hand when he strokes. The sounds that come from John’s mouth. _Oh, god, Sherlock…_

“Are you all right?” Molly is leaning over him. “You look a bit flushed.”

“I’m fine.” His face does feel hot. “It’s too warm in here.” He fiddles with the focus knob.

“Erm… you don’t actually have a slide there. In case you were wondering why it won’t focus.” She giggles. “Something on your mind?”

 _Oh, there’s the slide_. He hadn’t put it in place yet. He looks up at Molly and smiles sheepishly.

Molly’s wearing the pink jumper with the tiny cats playing with tiny balls of yarn. She looks a bit sad, and he realises that the last time they talked, she had started dating someone— an E-name… Evan? Ethan? That was it. She even mentioned that they were talking about moving in together. Perhaps it was going badly. He can certainly identify with that.

What has John done to him, to make him suddenly sensitive to other people’s emotions?

“How is Ethan?” he asks. He remembers running into her with the man, a ginger-haired fellow partial to bowties and jackets with patches on the elbows. Collector of something boring. Comic books, he thinks.

She blinks and does a little double-take. “Fine. I didn’t think you remembered.”

“Of course. Bowtie. He’s a teacher, right?”

“Journalist.”

“Yes, I remember. I just wasn’t sure if it was a good thing to ask. If it was going badly, you might not want to talk about it, and then you’d feel bad because I brought it up.”

He can say things like this to Molly, and she understands. Perhaps she’s more forgiving of him because they are friends now. She used to look at him with sad eyes, and Mike Stamford had finally explained that she was _in love_ with him. This was unexpected and a bit disconcerting. He knew that it was possible to be _in love_ with someone who didn’t love you back, but up until then, _he’d_ always been the one on the losing side. He felt bad about not loving Molly _like that_ , but when he explained to her that he couldn’t be in love with a woman because he was gay, she stopped making sad eyes at him. Now they’re friends.

“It’s going well, I think. We go out and do something most weekends.” She frowns a bit. “I’m not sure why, but I don’t look forward to our dates. It’s not that I… well, I just don’t want him to think…” She lets out a little huff. “He’s perfectly nice. Lives with his mother, and she’s nice, too. Not at all possessive. She’s quite eager to see him married, I think.”

“Has he asked you to marry him?”

“Not yet. But I think he will. We’ve been going out for three months.”

“Is there a rule about such things?”

She shrugs. “Not sure. I’ve never been asked.”

“Do you want him to ask you?”

“I just don’t… I don’t think he’s the one.” She flushes. “You probably think that’s silly, that I believe there’s someone out there meant for me.”

He considers this concept. While the idea that everyone has a corresponding person who fits them perfectly is preposterous, he’s aware that many people believe this. _Soulmates_ , they call it. For a long time, Molly thought Sherlock was meant for her, and he wonders if she still thinks that. If so, she must be disappointed that they can’t be together. She must think herself unlucky.

Sherlock himself has never considered that there might be a soulmate out there waiting for him to appear. The odds of finding a person who would love him for himself are infinitesimal. At best, he will spend his life loving people who leave him. Or avoiding love altogether.

But John might be such a person. He appears to like Sherlock, is attracted to him, and tolerates his shortcomings. He might even love Sherlock, and Sherlock probably loves him. But there are no guarantees when it comes to love. Just unproven propositions.

“Statistically, there are any number of individuals who could be well-matched with a given person. If you consider age, personality type, religious beliefs, sexual orientation, there are probably dozens of men in London who would…” He stops. “I’m not being helpful, am I?”

She takes his hand. “It’s all right. I must not be very good at attracting all those dozens of men.”

“You’ll find someone.” He knows this is not something he can predict, but there is some logic to it. A person like Molly, who’s looking for someone, has a better chance of finding a love interest than someone who’s not looking. She’s a much nicer person than Sherlock, and it stands to reason that she will find someone she can love.

She smiles. “How’s John?”

* * *

John moves his possessions into the flat. Sherlock watches, but doesn’t offer to help. There isn’t much, to be honest. John has gotten used to occupying spaces temporarily, and has left behind many things he used to own. Unnecessary, much of it. Things he shouldn’t have wasted his time and money on. It’s better to travel light, he thinks.

The last place he called _home_ was his parents’ house, where he occupied a small, Harry Potter-sized room on the upper floor, across from the room where boxes and old furniture were stored. His parents had lots of things they didn’t use, and John used to think about that. Why have an entire attic of objects whose time has passed?

He’s lived in various way-stations. After leaving his parents’ home, he moved into a dormitory room that he shared with a quiet boy named Mark. John was grateful for the silence; his parents’ house had always been full of noise as well as unused junk. He liked crawling into his narrow bed each night, knowing that there would not be screaming and crashing of crockery in a few hours. In the army, all space was shared space, and he grew used to the camaraderie of it, thankful that it was temporary.

The house where he lived with Mary was always her house. She chose the paint, the rugs, and the furnishings, and he figured that was her right. That’s what brides do, make a house into a home, create a space where children are cared for. She set their routines and all the rules about where things go, and he paid the bills. It only took one attempt for him to learn that feet don’t belong on the coffee table, socks belong in the hamper, and toilet seats should not be left up. It wasn’t his home; it was Mary’s house.

Now he has a flatmate. More than that, he has a _boyfriend_. They are sharing a flat, cohabiting, living together. Kissing when they feel like it, holding hands in public, having sex. Quite a lot of sex. After years of hiding, he’s still getting used to the idea that he can have this.

There are nights when he wakes up, looks over and sees Sherlock breathing softly and deeply, feels bony knees poking into his side, and wonders at how his life has changed. He has the maddest man in London in his bed, and gets to follow him into the underbelly of London, help him solve crimes, and make his tea.

Sherlock is a man who lives in his own head, thinking about things that John can’t easily imagine. While this and other things (small explosions in the kitchen, mysterious containers in the fridge John has learned not to open, and late night violin concerts) might make Sherlock a terrible, inconsiderate flatmate, John finds himself too fascinated with the man to care. It’s an interesting life, occasionally a dangerous life, and it’s his life now. He doesn’t miss the peace and quiet.

He hasn’t forgotten his responsibilities, though. He has a daughter, and it’s been too long since he’s seen her. He’s called the house and Mary’s mobile, leaving messages which are never answered.

One afternoon when Sherlock is at the morgue, doing something with a corpse that Molly has saved for him, he rings the house number and his daughter answers.

“How are you, Rosebug?” It’s his nickname for her, dating back to when she demanded that he read _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ every night at bedtime. She used to love insects, giggled every time he called her that. Now he hears her sigh.

“Hi, Daddy. Mum’s not home right now.”

“I was just calling because I haven’t seen you in so long. I miss you. How’s school?”

“Horrible.”

“Are you doing the Science Fair this year?”

“Science Fair is for little kids, Daddy. I’m fourteen.”

He’s embarrassed that he doesn’t know what interests her anymore. While he was gone, she turned into a surly teen who doesn’t laugh, wears ugly clothing, and spends all her time in her room with the door closed.

“I’d like to see you some time. Can you ask your mum to call me about that?”

“Yeah, sure. If she’s ever home.”

“Are you getting along with her?”

“I hate her. She’s completely unreasonable.”

He has reason to hate Mary, but he doesn’t. He sympathises; having a stroppy teenager isn’t fun.

“Just tell her to call me.”

“Bye.” She rings off.

He sits there, feeling inadequate. His daughter is slipping away, becoming an adult, and he’s missing it.

He goes on cases with Sherlock. If Lestrade is doing the summoning, it’s normally a murder, and John has learned his role at a scene. He’s a doctor, but Anderson is the forensic tech, and even though the man is an arse, he isn’t a complete idiot and can usually get the medical basics right— time of death, signs of violence, and anything else pertaining to the condition of the body. John has seen a lot of violent death, but the violence he’s seen has mostly been caused by artillery. These deaths are poisonings, stranglings, stabbings, drownings, and occasionally shootings. He knows this landscape too, having worked for a time in emergency medicine, but he tries not to overstep.

John is a social interpreter, a human handler of sorts. _Mediator_ was his first role In his parents’ home. With two dysfunctional parents and a defiant sister, he became by default the one who managed. Dealing with people comes naturally to him, along with a personal radar that warns him when things are about to get ugly. When he goes to crime scenes, he observes a cycle of insult and abuse that bounces between Sherlock and Lestrade’s people, acting and reacting. They clearly resent their consulting detective, not only because he can see the things they miss, but because he isn’t polite about it. Sherlock doesn’t merely lack people skills, he sees no point in them. At the same time, it bothers him. John notices him tensing up the moment they duck under the yellow tape, and can tell that it’s not just anticipation of what they will find. It’s a shield against the unnecessarily rude remarks the Yarders throw at him. They’re like kids in a schoolyard, taunting the outsider. While Lestrade appreciates what Sherlock brings to the scene, he doesn’t do much to rein in their hostile behaviour.

He turns to Sally Donovan one day as Sherlock is making his survey of the wooded area where the victim was found strangled. Her eyes on the detective, Donovan is muttering under her breath. Clearly, she cannot stand the man.

“Is that really necessary?” he asks. “I get that you don’t like him, but can’t you even be civil?”

“You think he’s being civil?” she asks.

This answer is the rhetorical equivalent of _he started it._

“Right now, yes. He’s doing the job Lestrade asked him to do.”

Sherlock looks up, stares into space for a moment, obviously thinking, and then sees John. He smiles.

“You see that pretty face,” Donovan says. “You see that gorgeous arse, and you’re amazed that he’s even interested in you. He knows how to get what he wants.”

“I see. So you consider me his latest conquest, and expect him to cast me aside, onto the pile of rejected boyfriends. I suppose he’s brought all his boyfriends to crime scenes and you’ve observed this pattern.”

She shakes her head. “I couldn’t say anything about his love life. As far as I know, you’re the first. But I have seen enough of the man to know that he’s a sociopath. He gets bored, and will use you until he finds a new pet. That’s what sociopaths do.”

Sherlock has found something. John can’t see what it is yet, but he sees the look of triumph on his face. He beckons, and John starts towards him.

“Thanks for the advice,” he tells Donovan as he walks away. “You’re using him too, you know. He does this because he wants to, not because he has to.”

“He does this because he gets off on it.” She gives him a chilly smile. “You’d better go. Freak’s calling you.”

Afterwards, they pick up some Greek food. At the flat, they serve it onto plates— dolmades and pastitsio— and sit down to eat.

“What did Donovan say to you?”

Sherlock looks unconcerned, John thinks, even smiling a bit. Perhaps he’s become impervious to their jibes and insults, but to John it’s unprofessional and an insult to Sherlock, who gets no fee from the Met for his work.

He decides to be honest. “She predicts that you’ll get bored and discard me.”

The bite of pastitsio on its way to Sherlock’s mouth hovers in mid-air. “Do you believe her?”

“No.” There are always uncertainties at the beginning of a relationship. This is to be expected, but he wants Sherlock to know that he trusts him, that he won’t be the one ending things, if it ever comes to that. “She’s wrong about you.”

“John,” he says, laying down his fork. “You should know that this is new territory for me. Please tell me if I’m doing something wrong.”

John spears another dolma. “You’re not doing anything wrong, Sherlock. You’re who you are, and I accept that.”

Sherlock has stopped eating. He stares down at his plate, not inscrutable, but sad. “That’s what worries me. I am who I am.”

 _This is tragic_ , John thinks. Sherlock is brilliant, beautiful, and—

 _This is frightening._ It’s frightening how fast John has started to think of this as permanent, the two of them living in the flat, sleeping together, chuckling over bad telly and dashing off to crime scenes.

_You’re amazed that he’s even interested in you._

John knows the emptiness in himself. He’s a social man, and for months he’s been alone. He remembers the moment that void appeared. He was lying in a bed in a field hospital, reading a letter from Mary. _I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner, but I wasn’t sure, and now…_

He’d imagined a future with her, and that was what kept him alive some days. It wasn’t a perfect marriage, but at least he had a family to return to, a wife and daughter. That brutally snatched away, he quickly succumbed to infection. He survived the bullet, and the letter almost killed him. He doesn’t know now why he loved her, or even if he did. She replaced him. She didn’t love him.

He’s a man with many acquaintances, mates who will have a pint with him if he calls, people who send him Christmas cards. But not many real friends. Even Mike Stamford was never that, back when they were students. They sat next to each other in class and talked. Med school was too gruelling for friendships. In the army, there were people he was close to, but he’s lost touch with most of them; only a couple live in London.

In this, he and Sherlock are similar, but for different reasons. John has never formed any lasting friendships because he always had a wife and child to put first. Sherlock doesn’t have friends because he puts up walls against people like Sally Donovan. He’s been doing this a long time, John senses. He is honoured that those walls have come down, even a little, for him. He feels his own defences coming down as well.

 _This is what love is_ , he thinks. It’s terrifying.

“We’ll work it out,” he tells Sherlock. They finish the meal in silence.

_I said dangerous, and here you are._

Sherlock is right about him: he does crave danger. In the short run, it’s the best antidote to the depression that sometimes overtakes him. There are times, though, when his new life feels more like a dream, and he worries that in the long run, the adrenaline will not be enough for either of them.

He writes up their first cases in the blog his therapist insisted he start and sees his number of followers grow steadily.

A couple days a week working at a small surgery gives John the reassurance that he’s returned to real life. Sherlock hasn’t made any fuss about paying the rent or buying the groceries, but John wants to do his part. It isn’t just the money; it’s being useful. He’s a doctor with some serious medical problems of his own, but he can’t just settle into the role of invalid. He needs to be a doctor, even if he can’t be a surgeon.

Sherlock is mostly okay with this, in concept. His acknowledgement of John’s job doesn’t stop him from texting while John is at work. If John’s with a patient when the text comes in and fails to answer immediately, he will keep texting until John calls him and reminds the impatient git that he does have a job.

_Come at once, if convenient. SH_

He calls. “I’m leaving in half an hour. Is that soon enough?”

Sherlock grumbles, but accepts this. He reminds John that they need milk. And chocolate biscuits. And he should stop at Barts, pick up a goodie bag from Molly.

“What is it this time? Thumbs? Kidneys?”

As it happens, it’s just bag of eyeballs.

“Anything else?”

“You can stop by Daunt and pick up a book for me.”

“You mean the bookstore just two streets from Baker Street?”

“That’s the one.”

“Is there something wrong with your legs?” He’s not really exasperated, though Sherlock does push that envelope quite a bit. It just feels good to be able to joke with him. “Temporary paralysis?”

“You’ll be coming by there on your way home. I just thought—“

“No problem,” he says quickly.

It isn’t any trouble, really. A moment of exasperation that his lover, who has no doubt spent the day stretched out on the sofa doing nothing observably productive, couldn’t be arsed to walk over two streets himself, is soon replaced by a sense of contentment that he can do something useful for Sherlock.

“I ordered it weeks ago, and they just called to say it’s arrived. Go to the desk and give them my name.”

It’s a small mystery that occupies him on the bus ride from Barts. What sort of book would Sherlock order? It must be something out of print, he decides, or he would just find the same content on the internet. Or maybe it’s written in German or Hungarian or some language John has never heard of. The subject? Sherlock has only two interests: crime and music. And he doesn’t read books about music, he plays his violin and occasionally drags John to a classical concert.

When he walks through the doors of the shop, his best guess is that he’s there to pick up an antique book describing early forensics methods. It will no doubt relate to some long-cold case, maybe the one he was debating with Lestrade last week. There is hardly a murder committed over the last hundred years that Sherlock has not studied. His website, _The Science of Deduction_ , often recounts these cases in gruesome detail. John has joked that the should rename his blog _Police News of the Past._

As he’s waiting for the clerk to find the book for him, he notices a display of novels. _The Latest in Romance!_ the sign proclaims. And he sees a familiar name there.

 _His Betrayal,_ the title reads. The black cover features a red rose, its petals dropping, and a gold ring. The author: Mary Morstan.

Mary has been writing as long as he’s known her. They’d met in an English Lit class that John was taking to fulfil a requirement. He’d been impressed by the girl sitting next to him, who seemed to have read every book on the syllabus twice. Her remarks in class were always insightful, and she and the professor had some vigorous discussions. John liked to read, but most of what he enjoyed would be considered common. He liked spies and adventure, thrillers. He read John Clancy, Robert Ludlum, Ken Follett. And he watched the movies— James Bond, Jason Bourne, and Jack Ryan.

Mary wrote literary stuff, reflecting her own childhood of absorbing the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen. By the time they were married, she’d had two manuscripts returned. She was teaching school and writing in her spare time, demanding that John share the duties of home and child. He was in medical school, dead tired most of the time and in debt. By the time Rose was old enough to start school, she devoted herself to writing romance and doing it better than anyone had ever done. She would game the system, she said, following all the rules of the genre she had studied relentlessly, and write a romance so compelling that it would break out of the genre mould. In that way, she could begin to write the stories she really wanted to write.

While John was in Afghanistan, three more manuscripts were returned with nice rejection letters. She’d quit her teaching job and taken a job as a receptionist, reasoning that it would be less consuming of her time and energy. John admired her tenacity, but when he returned, he had too many of his own problems to fit into the ruthless order of her life and Rosie’s. And he resented it. When he needed her most, she didn’t have time for him, more or less told him to suck it up and get a job.

The affair, which (as he discovered) hadn’t ended, was what sent John out the door. Anything was better than accepting her infidelity. He’d been faithful to her while he was overseas, even in the face of temptation. He returned to a wife who resented him and a daughter who had grown into an adolescent without him.

He picks up a copy of the book and reads the flyleaf. It sounds like a twisted version of his own life. In the story, a military husband returns home a changed man, unable to love the family he’d left. Is that really how she saw him? He’d tried to love her, or at least keep his vow to her, but it was she who had broken their vows.

“Would you like that as well?” The clerk is looking at him, holding a package that he presumes is Sherlock’s order. He nods at the display. “Just came in this morning.”

“No, just the order. How much?”

He pulls out his wallet and pays, hoping whatever it is will be worth the forty-two pounds he has to put on his credit card.

Sherlock hasn’t been lounging on the sofa. He’s in the kitchen, cooking something that smells wonderful.

“You’re… making dinner?”

“Of course.” Sherlock takes the package and eagerly rips it open.

“What’s… this is…?” He nods at the oven, where a pan of something is baking.

“Coq au Vin.”

“That’s… amazing.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Just chemistry, John.” He’s smiling at his book. _Ogden’s Guide to Apiology._

“Bees?” John asks.

Sherlock looks up. “Bees, John. Fascinating creatures.”

“Is it… for a case?”

He shakes his head. “Just… a hobby. Maybe, someday.” When he sees John still looking at him, he continues. “When I was a boy, we had a neighbour who kept bees. I used to go over to his house and he’d tell me about it. He showed me this book, now out of print. When he died a few years ago, I asked his daughter if I could have it, but she’d already sold his library. I’ve been scouting around for a copy for years now.”

“That’s very…” John searches for a word.

“Sentimental?” Sherlock smiles. “I know. Foolish.”

“It’s… lovely.”

He watches Sherlock paging through the book, a small smile curling his lips. He has odd obsessions, John has noted, and it’s endearing how he throws himself into certain subjects. He loves knowledge, loves books and music and reason and order. He loves unraveling things, solving puzzles. This is what fills him with life. This is what it looks like— Sherlock in love.

John is not a mystery or a puzzle. He’s a man whose dysfunctional family can be deduced from his phone, whose disappointments can be read in his limp. He’s straightforward, average, normal.

He looks at Sherlock, lost in some reverie about bees.

_Will he ever look at me like that?_


	5. Call It What It Is

John has been moody, and Sherlock doesn’t understand why. Moodiness he understands; he knows that he himself is a moody person, swinging between almost days of manic activity and days where he barely moves. He warned John about that, knowing that it’s best to be upfront about one’s failings.

But John seems like a steady person. He has regular habits and urges regularity on Sherlock, reminding him to eat and sleep and dragging him out of the flat when he can’t move from the sofa. When they met, Sherlock perceived that he was suffering from depression, probably the result of his injuries and his divorce. Because he doesn’t talk about either of those things, it’s hard for Sherlock to know what his recent mood is about.

They’re watching telly one night, a late night talk show, some idiot woman blathering on about a book she’s written. John grabs the remote and abruptly changes stations. Now they’re watching a show about a tattoo parlour. Definitely more interesting that what they were watching, but not exactly what he would have expected.

Though he’s staring at the screen, John’s not really watching. Instead, he seems inwardly focused, as if he’s chewing over some problem. His hands are clenched, a clear sign of tension. His lips are pressed in a thin line, like he’s holding something inside— anger?

There are things that Sherlock does which he knows make people angry. He’s been careful not to do too many of these things— especially regarding the kitchen and bathroom. He’s tried to be thoughtful of his flatmate, sensitive to anything that might make him change his mind about living with Sherlock.

John is definitely angry, he deduces. Today was a rather boring day, no case to occupy them. John didn’t work, so they spent the morning on their own projects, John writing in his blog, and Sherlock looking at a cold case file for Lestrade. John made himself a sandwich at noon, and asked if Sherlock would like one as well. He’d accepted (even though he wasn’t hungry) because John likes to take care of him and makes very good sandwiches. He’d eaten all of his sandwich and even washed the dishes afterwards so John wouldn’t have to do everything.

The afternoon had passed in much the same way. John was reading a novel, and Sherlock fell asleep on the sofa. When John woke him up at six to ask about food, they’d decided on takeaway from the Thai restaurant nearby and had it delivered. They’d settled in to watch a movie, one Sherlock didn’t care about, but he liked sitting with John, who would card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair while they watched. After the movie they’d taken a loo break and then decided to watch the talk show for a while before going to bed. All in all, a quiet and uneventful day. A comfortable day.

John is still clenching. Sherlock can feel the tension coming off of him in waves.

Has Sherlock done something wrong? Maybe John doesn’t like the way he put the dishes away. He hadn’t put anything on the top shelf, which John can’t reach. Maybe he forgot to thank him for the sandwich— no, he remembers doing that, dropping a kiss on John’s neck before going into the kitchen. John smiled at him.

 _It’s not always about me_.

He could simply ask John what is bothering him, but John would only say _nothing_ and continue being angry. Or he might smile at Sherlock and offer to make tea. Denial and evasion are what he would expect. He needs another strategy.

John said they should be honest with one another, that this would keep them right and help them navigate this new relationship. Some things are hard to be honest about.

And suddenly he understands what could be bothering John. He has an ex-wife and a daughter he never talks about. Sherlock has never observed John on the phone with them, though perhaps he does that from work. He has never talked about visiting them. He’s been living at 221B for nearly two months now, and as far as Sherlock knows, hasn’t seen his family once.

He wonders: what kind of woman is she, the former Mrs Watson? She was perceptive enough to see something good in John, but foolish enough to throw it away. She left him; Sherlock knows that was part of John’s depression.

How old is their child? They were at uni when they met, he said, so maybe she’s a teenager. Lestrade has a teenaged daughter and says it’s the worst.Teenaged girls are going through puberty. They hate their parents and run after boys. They dye their hair awful colours and wear too much makeup. They giggle and cry and slam doors.

John apparently doesn’t have shared custody. Does he feel guilty? Does he miss his daughter? Does he still love his wife, who rejected him?

The fact that John says he loves Sherlock means very little, he realises. Love is an emotional thing, a state of mind that impedes rational thought. John _thinks_ he loves Sherlock, but maybe he is still in love with… what’s her name? John hasn’t even said her name once.

He carefully frames a question. He might have a right to ask a few personal questions of the man he sleeps with, but that doesn’t mean they will be welcome.

“How is your daughter handling… things?” _Careful, non judgmental—_

John startles, physically jumps off the sofa, turns and glares at him. “How do you—? I know I’m an open book, but it’s not funny.”

Not the reaction he was expecting; he feels his heart pounding and his stomach clench as he tries to figure out how to make this right. He doesn’t understand John’s reaction, so how can he reply? He needs more information, but if John doesn’t want to talk about it, and he can’t deduce it— “I’m not laughing, John. I didn’t mean— I was just thinking, this is a big change for her, and I’m sure—“

“Brilliant.” He doesn’t mean _brilliant_. It’s sarcasm. He means, _arsehole._ “I don’t know how you go from that—“ he waggles his hand at the telly— “to my daughter. Tell me how you do that, hm?”

“John, I don’t mean to pry into… I only noticed that you’ve been quieter than usual for the last half hour and seem unhappy. You haven’t talked about your wife—“

“Ex-wife.” John stares down at him, his mouth a straight line.

“Yes, of course. I thought… I’m rather stupid about such things, but it seems to me that you would miss your daughter, and might be thinking about her. I’m sorry. It isn’t any of my business.”

John sighs and sinks down on the sofa beside him. “No, I’m sorry. You do have a right to ask, and I should have told you before.”

“Only if you want to.”

“I do want to. I’m just so… angry, I guess.” He gives Sherlock a sheepish smile. “So, you didn’t actually deduce it from that interview we were just watching.”

“The tattoo parlour?”

“No, the woman, talking about her book.”

“I wasn’t really paying much attention.” He doesn’t add that he was only paying attention to John, thinking that he would watch any amount of boring telly as long as he could cuddle John while watching.

“That woman was my ex-wife, Mary. Mary Morstan, no longer Watson. She’s written a book. I saw it on display at the bookstore the other day. She’s been writing for years, and it seems this is her big break. I read the book jacket while I was waiting in line. It sounds a bit like she’s used me as a character, the evil ex.”

“I had no idea.” Sherlock can understand his reaction now, but it is most likely an over-reaction. “That must have been horrible, seeing it like that, seeing her… Tell me about your daughter.”

He smiles, but his eyes become shiny with tears. “She’s fourteen and thinks she’s twenty-four. We were close before I went away, but when I came back things were tense with Mary because of the affair. She started acting out, saying she hates us both. I moved out when it was clear that Mary hadn’t quit her affair, and haven’t been been able to reach her. She doesn’t answer my emails, or my calls… I don’t want to fight. I really don’t.I called a week ago and was able to talk with Rosie, but Mary still hasn’t called me back to set up visits.”

“Rosie… that’s her name.”

“Yeah. Rosamund. He hates it.” He smiles. “I call her Rosebug. She hates that, too.” He wipes his eyes with the side of his hand. “I’ve been a shite father, really. Never there for her—“

“It isn’t your fault,” he says. “I don’t know why people want to blame everything on parents, when their first job is to make sure the child is physically safe and cared for, not to be there all the time, catering to their every whim. You are a good parent, and she is just being a normal fourteen year old.”

John blinks. A tear falls on his shirt collar. He scrubs his eyes with his fist.“I guess you’re right. I should call her again.”

“I’m sure she misses you.”

He tries to imagine how this— John’s divorce, his daughter, his wife who writes novels about their marriage— will affect their relationship. It would be so much easier if— no, it’s selfish to wish those things didn’t exist. Everyone brings baggage to a relationship. God knows, Sherlock has plenty of that. He will learn how to incorporate John’s family into their relationship. He can be supportive.

“Come here,” he says.

Sighing deeply, John scoots next to Sherlock and puts his arms around him. “Let’s go to bed.”

* * *

“So, what do you do for fun, John Watson?”

Sarah Sawyer is smiling across the lunch table in the staff lounge. Smiling at _him_ , flirtatiously. Technically, she’s his boss, managing partner of the small surgery where he has started to work two or three days a week. It’s a general practice, so they see a bit of everything— minor injuries, kids’ ailments, chronic conditions. And it’s a short train ride away from Baker Street, far enough to give him some space, close enough to get him home quickly in an emergency— or what passes for an emergency in Sherlock’s mind. It’s a nice job, absorbing, but not overwhelming.

He likes Sarah. She’s pretty, intelligent, and doesn’t hesitate to say what she thinks. Her sense of humour is rather dark, like his own; he enjoys trading observations with her, laughing about the things that make their work interesting and difficult. Six months ago, he would have asked her out.

Now, however, that’s not a good idea. In fact, it’s a very bad idea, and he’s not sure how to head this off before it becomes awkward. Maybe it already has.

“Fun?” He laughs. “Is that a thing? Why haven’t I heard of this before?”

“People have fun. They spend time with other people they like, doing things that are _not work_.” She raises her eyebrows. “You should try it some time.”

“Yeah, well.” He’s not used to being the one pursued. Flirting is something he used to do. He enjoyed the sport of it— the repartee, the nuances, and seeing where things might go. “I guess I’m not a very fun person.”

“I like movies,” she says. “And I like Chinese food.”

“Oh.” Here it is, the really awkward moment.

Smiling, she continues. “And I’m free Saturday. How about it?”

“Sarah, I like you very much,” he begins.

“It’s okay, John. I just thought I’d ask.”

“It’s— I’m currently with someone.” _Say it: I’m gay._ He doesn’t.

“I’m glad. You seemed a bit lonely. The nurses have been vying for your attention, so I thought I’d just step to the head of the line and see if you were interested.”

“Thank you. For asking, I mean.” He thinks about how many times he’s made advances and heard that line from women. Sarah doesn’t seem to be taking it badly.

There are three nurses in the clinic. Patricia’s been happily married for thirty years, so she probably hasn’t been drooling over him. That leaves Natalie, just out of nursing school. And Dustin.

Sarah said the _nurses_ were interested. Plural. Surely not Patricia, who is nearly his mother’s age. So. Natalie and Dustin were talking about him. They obviously haven’t decided whether he’s gay or straight. He imagines Dustin telling Natalie, _girl, I can tell when a man is gay._ And Natalie equally convinced that he’s straight.

And Sarah asked him out. Maybe she was trying to settle the dispute, get a definitive answer, whether John Watson is gay or straight. Or maybe she really is interested.

 _What kind of signals am I sending?_ Flirting is harmless, but it does send a message. He hasn’t been trying to flirt, though that used to come naturally to him. Maybe he’s encouraging it without realising.

He doesn’t know whether to feel flattered or embarrassed. He’s mentioned that he has a flatmate, but never referred to Sherlock as his _boyfriend._ Did he ever mention Mary? No, he hasn’t said the word _ex-wife._ Nor has he said _boyfriend._

“Well, good,” Sarah says. “I’m glad you have someone.”

When he arrives home that evening, the flat is empty. Sherlock is gone, and hasn’t left a note or any indication of where he went or what caused him to leave.

With Sherlock, it’s always one extreme or the other, it seems. He’s a silent shape on the sofa, or he’s a frenetic force of nature that tears around the flat, making incomprehensible utterances and eventually running downstairs and out the front door without giving a clue as to his destination. Apparently, after days of the former, the latter has occurred.

John has grown used to the highs and lows, but some days it would be nice if there were a note, just a small hint as to what he ought to do about dinner. They don’t have an organised plan for who cooks on what nights. Sometimes they cook together; sometimes John cooks. And every now and then, Sherlock creates something amazing. _Cooking is just chemistry, John._

That’s simply who Sherlock is. The unpredictability of life with him is stimulating, but it has a darker side. Right now, for instance, John isn’t sure whether Sherlock has decided to do something about the milk situation, in which case he’ll be back in a bit with carton of half-skim and several packets of biscuits. Or maybe he’s gone over to Barts to get something from Molly which he will put in the refrigerator when he gets home and hope that John doesn’t notice. Or he may have rushed off after a suspect and is now lying in an alley bleeding to death.

Here is what’s not easy to live with, that Sherlock is sometimes so deep inside his own mind that he doesn’t think to notify other people when he’s putting himself in danger. John can’t help reacting to this: he’s a caregiver, a doctor who has seen most of the ways people can be seriously injured, even when they’re not chasing criminals. He’s seen people die in freak accidents. Too many, enough for a lifetime. And he’s a soldier. His job is to protect people. To protect Sherlock.

But jealousy is part of what he feels, too. He wants to be wherever Sherlock is, or at least to be asked. They’re— _this_. Whatever _this_ is.

Sometimes it feels as if Sherlock is actually married to his work, and John is just the affair he’s having on the side. Or maybe John is the long-suffering spouse, and the Work is the dangerous and irresistible mistress that makes him forget about John. Like Sherlock, John craves danger, but Sherlock also craves interesting problems. And John craves Sherlock, his brilliant, mad, mercurial— _this_. They’ve never put a name to it, and John often wonders if the sentiment is equal on both sides.

No, he doesn’t wonder. He _knows_ that Sherlock doesn’t feel the same. He’s not romantic, doesn’t do relationships, married to his work. He sees John as a convenience. He went on that first date because his friends urged him to, not because he was looking for love. He decided that this small, limping army doctor solved several problems: the rent, the tea, and sex. John accommodates his oddities, does the shopping, and smooths over problems with Lestrade and company.

He wonders how long it will be before Sherlock realises how boring his flatmate is.

It’s late now, and he’s more than annoyed; he’s worried. He’s texted Sherlock a half dozen times, asking where he is, joking about how he must be in another dimension where he can’t receive text messages. And then demanding: _Where the fuck are you?_

That last one he deleted before sending it.

Here is something he understands about relationships: contact must be negotiated, and it’s not always equal. When he lived with Mary, she used to call him all the time with little requests, never anything important, but if he didn’t reply, she would call the hospital info number and demand to talk to him. It was her way of keeping tabs on him, reminding him what he owed her. John rarely called her because he never had anything to ask. If she didn’t return his calls, he never worried.

Most of the time Sherlock answers by the third text. When he wants John, he will text him seventeen times in a half hour and expect an immediate reply. _Come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway_. He’s never polite about it, never interested in whatever is keeping John from responding.

John, on the other hand, hesitates to reveal exactly how worried he is. Sherlock sometimes ignores him for days, barely saying a word. He warned John about that, so John can hardly complain when it turns out to be true. And he expects John’s presence when he wants it, however trivial the reason. John hasn’t claimed that privilege for himself. He knows that he won’t receive that kind of devotion from Sherlock.

John’s failure to reply never worries Sherlock; he’s simply annoyed, uncomprehending. What can John possibly be doing that is more important than whatever trivial thing Sherlock is obsessing about? He doesn’t worry about John; he hates being ignored.

_You will never be his obsession, his focus, his worry._

He sends one more text: _Please tell me where you are_.

Seeking a distraction, he opens a bottle of whisky, pours himself a couple fingers. When he’s pouring a second glass, he calls Harry.

“Hello, stranger.” Her voice sounds a bit hoarse. Probably drinking again. Since Clara left, she’s been off her program.

“Hi, Harry. Just thought I’d check in, see how you’re doing.”

“Hm. How’s your flatmate?” Changing the subject means: _not good, don’t want to talk about it._ She never asks about anything John is doing. Except now.

“He’s fine,” John says quickly. “Just fine.”

There is a silence, in which John imagines her refilling her glass. “So, what’s bothering you, little brother?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking about you, and we haven’t talked in a while…”

“Are you dating anyone yet?” she asks. “I know you can’t stand to be celibate.”

“No. Well, yes. I am seeing someone.” Before he gets into that, he needs to ask her something. “Harry, do men ever flirt with you?”

“Never. I think it’s fairly obvious that I’m not straight, or at least not trying to appeal to men.”

“Do you think,” he begins. _No, reword it._ “Do I… appeal to men?”

“You mean, can people tell you’re gay?” She chuckles. “You’ve always been able to pull from both sides, Johnny. You’ve just chosen to ignore the men.”

“I’m dating a man,” he says quickly, before he loses his courage. “I’m not sure _dating_ is the right word, but I’m with my flatmate. So not dating, living together. He’s… he’s gay, and I decided to be open… after Mary, I mean. I thought I’d try. See if I’m… really.”

“So, after years of trying to convince everyone that you’re straight, you’ve decided to have a go at being gay. Is that it?”

“I guess so. I mean, I’ve been with men before, but that was always… erm. Uncomplicated. Just sex. Don’t most men have gay experiences at some point? When they’re young, maybe?”

“I always knew what I was,” she replies. “Never wanted to sleep with a man. You’re obviously bisexual. So was Clara.”

“Really?” He remembers Clara— a pretty, dark-haired woman Harry’s been with for a couple of years. He wouldn’t have guessed. Well, stereotypes are just things people make up so they don’t have to think about the nuances of human sexuality. People like labels; they save time and narrow down your choices.

“Yeah, she was. Left me for a man. I kept telling myself that I shouldn’t doubt her loyalty. Men used to look at her, and she sometimes noticed, but I really thought she’d committed to being a lesbian. Said she was done with men. And then, she wasn’t. Jesus.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, she was too. Said she hadn’t been looking, blah, blah. I guess it taught me something. Don’t trust anyone. People never mean what they say. So what about you? Have you given up women?”

“Yeah, I have. I’m with a man, so I thought that would be obvious.”

He hears her sigh deeply, and knows that she is about to tell him something _for his own good._ “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’d better make up your mind. Don’t work out your _leanings_ on a gay person. It’s hard enough being gay without your partner, the person you trust, deciding that they’re not gay enough, or that you’re too gay, or that they really prefer… Well. Just… don’t do it.”

“It isn’t that simple, Harry. This isn’t a phase, something I’m going to grow out of. I can’t just—“

“You have a therapist, right?”

“I haven’t seen her for a while, but yeah.”

“Make an appointment, get a referral. Find somebody you can talk this through with. Figure it out— before you screw up someone else’s life.”

“Fine.” He has no intention of doing this, but Harry isn’t really hearing him. Even so, it can’t hurt to talk to Ella. Or maybe there are therapists that specialise in whatever he is. A confused bisexual who might be in love with his gay flatmate.

* * *

It’s like being high, this feeling. Sherlock knows all about addiction, and this is better than cocaine. He’s just solved an interesting case. John was grumpy that he hadn’t been asked along, but he’d been at work when the call from Lestrade came, and John hates having his work schedule overturned. Sherlock knows he’d prefer to be on a case rather than at his boring job, but he won’t quit his job. It’s important to him to be a doctor, he says, and he needs the income. Sherlock won’t argue about it.

At the end, when he noticed all the text messages, he’d called John, telling him that he was needed. He wasn’t needed, but it was nice to have a witness to the conclusion, the moment when he revealed all that he’d deduced. He’s rather proud of this one.

“There was blood on the carpet,” he explained, “but none on the floor beneath. That told me that someone had moved the carpet.”

As he explained how he found the hidden compartment where the missing document was concealed, John’s irritation disappeared; he was amazed.

And now they’re heading to a new Turkish restaurant that’s opened on the other side of the park. John will probably get the kebab combo, he thinks. They can share a mixed appetiser to try all the interesting dips with pita bread. He’ll tell John a funny story, and they’ll drink a bottle of retsina, and they’ll laugh about their first date, how it was so different from tonight.

John is so much more than a boyfriend. It’s scary how much Sherlock adores him.

They’ve placed their order and Sherlock is thinking of a story that will make John laugh, and John is smiling at him as if he has never wanted to be anywhere else, with anyone else. It’s perfect.

He tells his story, about a time he and Lestrade were investigating a murder in the Docklands, and John is laughing because only he can understand how a body concealed in a shipment of smoked herring is both gross and hilarious. Maybe not a tale best told over dinner, but that’s who they are.

He loves John’s laugh. It’s addictive.

“John!” A woman’s voice is calling from across the restaurant.

He watches as she approaches, a man following behind her. She is bottle-blond, smiling, wearing an aggressively close-fitting dress, bright red. Many people look good in red, but on this woman it looks like a strategy more than a fashion choice. She wants people to know she’s in charge here. The man with her is not her lover; he’s probably a co-worker.

John’s face shifts like a landscape under a windy sky. His smile fades, replaced momentarily by a micro-scowl, and then he puts on a tight smile, the kind that shows no pleasure.

“Mary,” he says.

“You look good, John.” She bends to plant an air-kiss somewhere near his cheek. “I didn’t expect to run into you.” She turns to look at Sherlock, who is applying all his deductive talents to seeing through her. Before he gets past _serial cheater,_ he realises that this is John’s ex-wife, the one who had an affair and wrote him a _Dear John_ letter while he was in Afghanistan. The woman who spared him the trouble of discovering her infidelity, but still hurt him deeply.

John seems to realise that introductions are expected. “This is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Mary, my w— my ex-wife.”

“Lovely to meet you,” she says, extending a manicured hand. “And this is my agent, David Spaulding. I’ve had my first book published, did I tell you?”

“Oh.” John gives her an awkward smile. “That’s great.”

“Rose said you’d called,” she goes on. “I’ve been so busy. Book signings and so forth. I promise I’ll call you this week so we can work something out.” She turns her gaze on Sherlock. “So nice to meet you.” There is something in that gaze that troubles Sherlock.

Before things can become more awkward, Mary leads David away, and they are alone once more.

But the mood of the evening has fizzled. More than that, the silence between them is weighted with something Sherlock must say. He will wait until they’re home. Maybe John will explain before it comes to that.

They eat without resuming their former conversation, occasionally remarking about how good the food is. They skip coffee and baklava and walk home in silence.

Once they’re in the flat, John avoids his eyes, puts on the kettle to make tea.

John is not gay; he’s bisexual. Good news for Sherlock, but possibly bad news for fidelity.

He clears his throat. “You introduced me to your ex-wife as your _flatmate._ ”

John drops teabags into their mugs. “Well, you _are_ my flatmate.”

“I’m more than that, I believe.”

John sighs. An impatient sigh, meaning: _I don’t have an answer for this._ “I didn’t expect to see her. I couldn’t think of what to say. _Boyfriend_ didn’t seem right. _Lover_ is a bit intimate for casual conversation over dinner. We haven’t talked about it, you know. How do you introduce me?”

“All the people I might introduce you to already know about us. I’ve been open with everyone I know.”

“Well, I haven’t had the opportunity. She took me by surprise. I didn’t know what to say.”

John is becoming annoyed, Sherlock senses. _Well, good_. It this is a fight they need to have, so be it.

“You could call her and tell her.”

“Tell her what?”

“That you’re gay and are living with a man.” _A man who loves you_.

John hangs his head, embarrassed and exasperated. “Can you not… Sherlock, I’m still sorting this.”

“And how do you plan on _sorting_ your sexuality? Or are you just playing at being gay? Using me as a distraction?” He huffs angrily, drops into his chair. “I thought you were committed to this.”

He looks up now, startled. “You’re angry.”

“The person I sleep with every night, with whom I have sex, just introduced me to his ex as if I were someone he shares the rent with, not a bed. How am I supposed to react? I don’t go around announcing my orientation, but I would not hesitate to tell anyone that you’re my lover.”

John winces. “Okay. Is that the word we’re using? Lovers? How about _partner?”_

“And let people assume that we’re business partners, no more? Or will you give a suggestive wink when you say it so they’ll know what you mean?”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Sherlock replies. “I’m giving you time to _sort this._ ”

“It’s nobody else’s business,” John says. “I’m sorry you were offended, but frankly, I didn’t want to talk to her at all, let alone inform her that I’m sleeping with my flatmate.”

“So,” says Sherlock. “We’re back to _flatmate._ ”

John has put on his obstinate face. “I’m not going to introduce you to anyone, especially my ex-wife, as my _lover._ What we do in bed, or anywhere else, is our own business.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Fine.”

“I’m going to bed,” John says. His stiff neck bends a little. “Coming?”

He looks a bit sorry, as if he believes that they might just have sex and forget about what’s happened.

“Maybe later.”

He stays up, though he doesn’t have any particular case dogging him. Voicing his thoughts when he was angry might not have been the best strategy. He might have just kept his mouth shut and let things work themselves out.

But that isn’t the way he solves things. He isn’t a talker, and rarely finds anyone who can make logical arguments. Conversation about such things is always emotion, sentiment, and hurt feelings, and there his no logic that can refute all of that. He hates those conversations, and he can tell that John does, too, but if John can’t even acknowledge publicly what they are, what is the point of being together? Without that, it’s just sex.

He falls asleep on the sofa.

In the morning, there is still tension. They prepare breakfast together, John making the tea and Sherlock toasting the bread, but this morning there are no little touches, no sleepy kisses. Sherlock spent his night on the sofa, and slept badly for the hour or so he drifted off.

He regards John, who is watching his tea steep. Watching very intently. Avoidance, it seems, is the strategy he’s chosen.

“I have a case, if you can reschedule your bi-crisis for later.”

John gives him a rueful half-smile. “I’ll call the surgery.”

They go together. John is silent, staring out the window of the cab, less hostile, but still refusing to talk.

 _Let him,_ Sherlock thinks. Now that he’s cooled off a bit he is wishing he’d opted for the first strategy, just letting it go and seeing if John can sort it out on his own. It’s so awkward sitting here like this, and he wishes for anything to end this stalemate.

Just as he’s thinking this, a sign. John has put his hand on the seat, next to Sherlock’s. His pinky finger loops over Sherlock’s, a small gesture, a test to see whether they can just declare a truce.

He takes John’s hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze.

The tension begins to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow roll-out of this. Once a week is about all I can manage right now!  
> Thank you so much for following this story, and for all your lovely comments and kudos ❤️


	6. Hot and Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deductions are made, not necessarily accurate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm raising the rating to M for a sex scene, not very long or detailed.

The case could be interesting, Sherlock thinks. He hopes it is, because then he might be able to make it up to John for leaving him behind without a word last time.

He’s not used to this. He’s never had a John Watson before, a person who seems to fill in all the empty spaces in his life. He wants very much for John to stay, but he’s never had to think about somebody else’s needs and desires. As such, he’s trying to be better, to notice what John is feeling. The man is not a talker. Most of the time, that’s okay because his face gives him away.

Right now John looks a bit wary, his feathers still ruffled, but at least he’s here. His presence is grounding. Sherlock’s attention turns to the case, a body found rolled inside a mat at a gym. Several possible causes of death come to mind, and he’s sure John will be able to answer that question.

He loves this, he realises. Working alone is what he’s always done, impatiently growling at Lestrade to keep his team silent, to stop putting him off. But now he has a John Watson. John can be obtuse, distracting, stubborn, oblivious, but he has a way of clearing Sherlock’s mind, focusing his attention. It’s inexplicable, but with John beside him, Sherlock _sees_ more. The bits of evidence he’s gathering refuse to form a coherent picture; John asks a question, and it all comes together. John isn’t brilliant, but he shines a light in the corners Sherlock has overlooked.

They arrive at the gym. Sherlock kneels beside John as he examines the body, still unidentified, no obvious cause of death. A male in his thirties, scruffy beard, thin, dressed in old jeans, a ratty shirt, and a hoodie. Obviously not a patron of the gym. John thinks he was probably dead when rolled up in the mat, or nearly so. Initially, it doesn’t look like asphyxiation; he may have died of an overdose, possibly cocaine. This doesn’t answer how he managed to get himself rolled up in a mat.

Having spotted a camera at the door, Sherlock asks to see the security footage. He and Lestrade watch the film speeded up, starting from yesterday’s closing, noting each client’s departure, the staff wiping down the equipment, the manager closing out the computer, and eventually the last staff member leaving, arming the security and closing the door behind him. The dead man does not appear in the footage.

The employees are standing in a small huddle, looking uncertain. One of the two women is crying, and the other one is comforting her.

“She’s the one that found the body,” says Lestrade, indicating the weeping woman. “Don’t think you’ll get much useful out of her. Be nice.”

“Of course,” he replies.

Distraught, she has to tell him the story of how she unrolled the mat and found _some guy_ , _dead as a doornail_. _Dead_. Such a terrible thing. _A man, dead,_ in the place where she works _. Terrible_. She fans her face, snuffles into a tissue.

Beyond this, she doesn’t have much to supply, and he is about to cut her off and move on to someone who might have noticed more, but he hesitates. He doesn’t normally waste time on distraught people because he’s rubbish at saying the right things, but John is here now. He would remind Sherlock that it’s not good to brush off people who are weeping, even if they have nothing substantive to contribute to the investigation. John could take over here, comforting her, so Sherlock can actually investigate. He has a good idea what happened, but will need to interview the other employees instead of listening to this woman repeating herself.

He looks around and finally spots John across the gym, talking with one of the trainers, a man with abs so chiselled that— well, it looks as if he might have used an actual chisel to sculpt them. He’s smiling at John— no, he’s _flirting_ with him! _Dear god_. Chiselled Abs lays a hand (attached to a muscular arm) on John’s shoulder, saying something, showing him— and then his other hand is on John’s abs—

And John is giggling. Giggling, a thing he only ever does for Sherlock.

As Sherlock watches in disbelief, the trainer grabs John’s arse and with one finger starts drawing invisible lines down his back and over his arse, as if he’s showing him how muscles work.

John is a doctor; he knows how muscles work. He doesn’t need a gym rat to explain it to him.

While he’s staring at this scene in horrified fascination, Lestrade asks him a question. He replies, _grhmng_. Something like that.

“Sherlock, you all right?”

As he strides towards them with a purpose, John turns, smiling. He then seems to realise that a smile is not the expression he ought to be wearing. He clears his throat and puts on a more serious look. Chiselled Abs is still smiling. _Arsehole._

“Just, erm… talking to the employees,” John says.

In reply, Sherlock growls, “I need you.” He gives Chiselled Abs a look meant to say, _keep your hands off my John_ , and the man just shrugs and smiles at him.

He keeps John at his side and talks to him, telling him every clue he’s picked up, and where blank spaces remain in the narrative. He’s talking rapidly, still angry, but now it’s mostly frustration as he tries to pull all the pieces together. For that he needs John, who will listen and say something that seems to having no relevance, but will inspire Sherlock to see the solution.

John is a bit flushed, he notices. He nods and pretends to follow what Sherlock is saying, but his attention is clearly on the man in the corner.

And then he realises. _Chiselled Abs was the one who locked up last night._

“I just told you that,” John says. “That’s why I started talking to him.”

_Flirting, you mean._ No, they’ll talk about that later, once he’s solved it.

He reviews the gym’s security footage, finds the blip where something has been deleted. Lestrade obtains video from the parking lot which clearly shows the victim getting out of his car and walking towards the door just as the gym is closing up. He is let inside by Chisled Abs, aka Steven Vincent.

From there, it’s easy. They find the drugs in Vincent’s locker. John observes that the cause of death could likely have been positional asphyxia, which does not usually leave the physical signs you would expect when a person has been strangled. Sherlock deduces that Steven Vincent injected the victim with something, or perhaps simply sat on him long enough to render him unconscious, then finished him off by putting his body head first into one of the rolled mats, which was standing on its end with other similar mats.

It’s so stupid that it might be brilliant. No blood, no dragging a dead body across the parking lot. The body might not have been discovered for days, he notes, by which time it would have been harder to fix the time of death, and Vincent would no doubt have firmed up an alibi. A planned execution, a fallout between business partners, a bully who overpowered a smaller man and humiliated him by letting him die horribly, helpless to save himself.

* * *

In the cab, Sherlock is silent, and John isn’t sure what to say. Maybe he shouldn’t have let Steve touch him, but it just sort of happened. He saw from the log that Steve had closed up and was interviewing the man only for that reason. He certainly didn’t expect him to start flirting. Not even his type. But it was for a case, and maybe he could get something out of him that would help Sherlock solve it. So he kept talking to him. Sherlock was busy, anyway, talking to the other employees, looking at CCTV footage, and badgering Lestrade.

And then Sherlock was angry, dragging him away, demanding his attention. After his epiphany, after telling Lestrade what had really happened, he dragged John outside and waved for a cab.

“That man is the murderer,” he growls. “Why were you letting him touch you?”

John stares out the window. “I didn’t know he was the murderer. I was just talking to him, trying to see what I could find out. He guessed I was military from my posture, and he was showing me— wait, are you jealous?”

He’s looking at Sherlock now, his mouth quirking into a smile. When Sherlock doesn’t reply, the smile disappears. “Sorry, I was only trying to help.”

“He was distracting you, feeding you a story that he hoped you would repeat to me in order to throw us off.”

“I was just trying to get something out of him.”

Sherlock snorts. “It looked like he was trying to get something out of you.”

He wanted to be helpful, to prove his worth to Sherlock. At crime scenes, he generally feels out of place, extraneous. While Sherlock swoops around, barking orders at Lestrade and sniping at Donovan and Anderson, John just stands there, not sure how he can be useful. Sometimes he thinks Sherlock brings him along just to have an audience, someone to tell him he’s brilliant or a bit not good. That’s fine, but he wishes sometimes that he were more than Sherlock’s little help-mate, standing around waiting to be noticed. Sherlock clearly loves the Work and doesn’t need anyone to help him at a crime scene.

He girds himself. “Anyway, you solved it. That was brilliant.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

John cuts a look at him and sees the corner of his mouth twitch. He takes his hand and squeezes it. “You’re brilliant.”

It’s spring and definitely warmer outside, but things are rather cold in the flat. Sherlock is in one of his not-talking moods, but he doesn’t have a problem to work on, not as far as John can see. The chemistry equipment goes untouched. Sherlock lies on the sofa, somewhere in his Mind Palace.

John feels restless. “Going for a walk,” he announces. “I can stop and get more milk. Anything else we need?”

The figure on the sofa doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

“Well… I’ll be back in a bit,” he says. “Text me if you need anything.”

His mood lightens as soon as the door closes behind him.

He has lived with dysfunctional people all his life and is used to moodiness; it’s the silence that gets to him. The Watsons were a noisy family, always yelling and crashing things. He was the quiet one, the one who retreated into his room when things were tense, the one who tried to mediate when they got worse. His parents are dead now, and he avoids Harry, who always has something to complain about, someone to blame for what’s wrong in her life.

He wonders what Sherlock’s family is like. He’s met the brother, briefly, on the night John shot the cabbie. Mycroft works for the government, doing something fairly important and hush-hush. Sherlock says that he _is_ the British government. Sherlock seems to resent his over-involvement. As for the Holmes parents, he’s heard nothing. They mentioned _Mummy_ that night after John shot the cabbie, so they have at least one living parent. It’s odd, really, that Sherlock hasn’t talked about them, not even a passing remark. In fact, there is very little that he actually does know about Sherlock. He doesn’t know his birthday, but assumes he’s in his early thirties, perhaps a couple years younger than John. He must have gone to school, but never talks about that, either. No school friends checking in, no birthday cards, no alumni newsletters. Nothing from his past.

And why is it that John knows so little about his flatmate— his lover? He’s told Sherlock about his own family, his sister, his military career, his cheating wife. Sherlock deduced most of that on his own. John has never gone into detail about his marriage, but Sherlock probably knows what happened. John is an open book to Sherlock. Everyone is. Does he think that John can do that same magic trick, figure out his childhood and his family and his failed love affairs from the way he ties his dressing gown or the mess he leaves in the kitchen?

No, Sherlock Holmes is a closed book, one with a padlock. He doesn’t talk about himself.

They’ve had two fights now, the one after running into Mary at dinner, where John introduced him as his _flatmate,_ and the other about the Steve, the flirtatious, murdering gym employee. Both of these fall back on John, who can’t seem to figure out this relationship. He’s still learning Sherlock, and being too slow about it.

The bed is chilly. Sherlock hasn’t come to bed, and John is pretty sure he won’t. He played his violin for an hour and is now sitting out there, sunk into his chair, brooding. Eyes closed, he did not acknowledge John when he said he was going to bed.

He sleeps poorly, occasionally waking and listening. He could simply get out of bed, go into the sitting room and ask him what’s on his mind. It’s exhausting, really, just thinking about this, not knowing.

But maybe he just needs to leave Sherlock alone to work out whatever’s troubling him. He did tell John that he sometimes doesn’t talk, even for days.

It’s the uncertainty that’s miserable. He simply doesn’t know what’s going on in Sherlock’s brain. He lies awake, trying to solve it. Eventually he must have drifted off because when he wakes, there’s light coming through the curtains.

Still no sounds from the sitting room. He peeks in, sees his flatmate curled up on the sofa, eyes closed, breathing deeply. There is something oddly vulnerable about Sherlock when he’s asleep. Awake, he practically thrums with mental energy, those pale eyes taking in every detail, slotting it into his internal filing system. It’s intimidating what those eyes notice. Asleep, he looks younger, softer.

John’s stomach clenches with worry; it feels like he’s losing him.

Quietly he slips into the loo and washes up, shaves, brushes his teeth, then stares at himself in the mirror for a good minute. The hours of tossing and turning have done their work on him, leaving his eyes puffy and his skin grey. What does Sherlock see in this face? Why did he even come to John’s flat that morning, inviting him along on a case? The excuse he gave was that he didn’t want to leave John with a false impression of who he was. Maybe he didn’t want John to think he was boring.

The question _should_ be, why did he kiss John? Why did he ask him to stay?

It’s baffling, being so in love with Sherlock and not knowing him at all.

Dressed and ready to leave, he considers waking Sherlock to say goodbye. No, he never sleeps much, and John hates to wake him for no good reason. He leaves the flat and takes a bus to work, still thinking about their argument.

All couples have arguments. For his parents, it was part of who they were. They fought constantly, occasionally grabbing and pushing and slapping. Sometimes throwing things. John knew this wasn’t normal, and was always terribly embarrassed when it happened in front of other people. When John was ten, his dad left after a particularly violent argument, drunkenly crashed his car into a tree, and died. At the funeral his mother still had bruises.

He knows that couples fight. A relationship involves compromise and negotiation; where feelings are involved, it can become heated. There was nothing violent about Sherlock’s behaviour yesterday; John, though stubborn, is also contrite. He hates having Sherlock angry with him. He wants to apologise, promise that he’ll never slight him again, that he’ll proudly introduce him as his boyfriend, the love of his life, to everyone they meet. But he asked for time, and Sherlock grudgingly granted it. John is the one who has issues, and he’d better get started on them soon.

When he has a break between patients, he shuts his office door and makes a call. When he first got back from Afghanistan, he saw a therapist. He was referred to her for help adjusting to civilian society and the limits his injuries had placed on him. She wasn’t very helpful with that, not when things blew up with Mary and all their talk turned to fixing that disaster. He hasn’t been back in months. But she is the only therapist he knows, and maybe she can refer him to someone.

“It’s good to hear from you, John,” Ella says. “What can I do for you?”

“I think I need to talk to someone.” He doesn’t say _talk to you_. He hopes she understands.

“Is this about your marriage?”

“That’s over. I mean, we’re not on great terms, but yeah, I’m glad it’s over.” He pauses, draws a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “I need to talk to someone about my, um…. well. The thing is, I’m in a gay relationship and having some issues.”

“I see.”

Is she surprised? John can’t tell. His bi-sexuality never came up in the few conversations they had about his wife. Those sessions were all about the marriage, how he’d gone into it too young, for the wrong reasons, and shouldn’t feel that it’s his fault that his wife had an affair. They never got to the part where they talk about his sex life. He went a few times and decided it was a waste of time. He vented to Stamford, and got a blind date with a madman who cured his limp and gave him a new life.

Ella says nothing, patiently waiting for him to say more. Well, it is rather a bombshell, him announcing that he’s in a gay relationship. Did she see that coming? Did she deduce his sexuality from the way he held his tea or cleared his throat or something? Or maybe she’s just falling back on her training, putting on that face that is meant to encourage him to say more.

Maybe she did see it during those appointments. Maybe she wrote it down on that pad she always took notes on. He remembers reading _trust issues_ there _._ Maybe she wrote _sexuality issues,_ deducing it from what he didn’t say.

“Yeah, well. I think I’m bi-sexual.” He laughs, uncomfortable. “I mean, I must be if I was married, and now I’m with a man. I’ve never done this before, and, erm, I’m having issues.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Maybe it isn’t because he’s a man. I don’t know. He’s gay, but he’s never done relationships before. We met on a blind date.” He’s aware of how this sounds, but Ella doesn’t even hum. “Maybe it’s just relationships in general that I haven’t figured out.”

“Since this is your first relationship with a man,” she says, “it’s not surprising that there are challenges. If you’d like, I can refer you to someone who deals specifically with same-sex relationships. And I think that it would be good for you to talk about your marriage as well.”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m suggesting a therapist, but also a support group for newly-divorced men. It might help with some of what you’re going through. All of your adult life you’ve been a husband and father. Navigating new relationships, dealing with your ex, being a parent to your child— all of these are things you might benefit from talking about with other divorced men.”

“Okay, that doesn’t sound so bad. My… my boyfriend is very important to me. I want our relationship to be strong.”

She smiles. “I know you do. Jay Eccles, the therapist I’m recommending, also moderates a group for men who are just coming out as gay, many of them after marriages or relationships with women. These would be men close to your age, some older.”

“Yeah, I could do that, I think.”

She promises to send him the information; within minutes, he receives an email. He makes the call, sets up an appointment with Dr Eccles, and asks to be added to the support group.

When he returns to the flat that evening, Sherlock has made dinner for him. It’s a huge relief, a confirmation that he was right not to press him to talk. Without a word, they embrace. Holding on, they sway, rocking to comfort each other.

* * *

After dinner they watch a show about gangs in Victorian London. Sherlock has seen it before, and hopes John will find it interesting. John is more apt to choose reality shows, which Sherlock finds boring. Compromise is necessary, he thinks, but maybe he can find something they both like. John likes history; Sherlock likes crime.

John doesn’t object, but he seems distant, distracted. Dinner was meant to be an olive branch, a gesture to show that Sherlock isn’t holding a grudge over the gym incident. And he is happy that he solved it. John said he was _brilliant_ , and all Sherlock’s chilly resolve to be distant had melted.

Evenings with John are comfortable, even when they don’t talk. They are not men who talk a lot, and that suits Sherlock well. He suspects that it suits John, too.

He imagines evenings at the Watson house, Mary dominating every aspect of John’s life, and John putting up with it because he feels he has to. Rationally, he can see why John married her. He’s a responsible person, and could never turn his back on a situation he felt responsible for. Irrationally, he despises Mary Watson because of what she did to John, cheating and breaking his heart. He even suspects that she got pregnant on purpose, thinking that she’d snagged a doctor and imagining the prestige he might have if she could just push him a bit more. John was just raw material for her ambitions.

What happened when John went to Afghanistan, Sherlock can only speculate. She had an affair, John said. She was writing books, creating a future for herself that didn’t depend on John. When he returned, she was well on her way towards that. She didn’t need John, didn’t care about him. The affair may have been the thing that told John it was over, but he was already out of the picture before that happened.

The entire reason John discovered his repressed sexuality was that Mary discarded him. To be rejected by a woman he’d devoted himself to, in spite of difficulties, shook him deeply. He lost everything— wife, family, career, health. He had no choice but to start from scratch. That was where Sherlock had found him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was in a good place when they met. His career was taking off, and that was all that really mattered to him. He’d put relationships behind him, having decided that they were unnecessary. He hadn’t wanted the blind date, caving in only because he couldn’t think of a reason not to do it.

And then there was John, trying to figure out a new life. A handsome man, a disappointed man. A soldier, a doctor. A man who hadn’t flinched at anything Sherlock showed him, who hadn’t hesitated to kill to protect Sherlock. He is unprecedented, the exception to Sherlock’s disdain of romance.

John isn’t nodding off yet, but his attention is not on the television. Sherlock makes a decision, slides his hand between John’s legs, leans over and kisses him.

“Bed?” He says this in a way that implies that neither of them are sleepy, but there are other things they could get up to in bed.

John kisses him back and slides his hand under Sherlock’s shirt. “God, yes.”

They undress each other, giggling a bit as they do, and slip between the sheets. So far, sex has meant either oral or hand jobs. John has said that he’s never done anything else with a man, and so far they haven’t tried any penetration. Sherlock has been waiting, letting John become more comfortable with the idea of that before pushing him.

Tonight he will push, he decides. John will probably be more comfortable inside Sherlock than vice versa, and that’s fine. Sherlock doesn’t have any preference, but he doesn’t have much experience, either. He doesn’t see them falling into defined roles, top and bottom. This first time it will be easier this way.

They kiss, and they touch. John has no hangups about touching or sucking another man’s cock, or having his own touched or sucked. They don’t talk about past experiences, but it’s obvious that he revels in the way Sherlock worships his body. In turn, he lavishes attention on all the sensitive spots he’s discovered on Sherlock’s body— his neck, his belly, and especially his cock. Maybe this is what John loves the most about his new gay life, the equity of it. He doesn’t have to explain what he wants to another man.

Sherlock slides his hand over John’s buttocks, slipping his finger just inside his hole. He hears John gasp and feels him shudder a bit.

“Okay?” he whispers. He feels John nod.

He opens his bedside drawer and find the lube he stashed there, anoints his fingers. John watches, his pupils dark in the dim light.

He experiments a bit, inserting one finger and reaching for the prostate. John moans. He doesn’t intend to fully penetrate John tonight, though, just to open his mind a bit to the possibility.

Tonight he wants John to fuck him.

“Sherlock—“ John whispers, sounding desperate.

He takes John’s hand, squeezes lube onto his fingers, and guides it between his buttocks. “Touch me.”

John does, stroking the opening gently. He begins sliding his finger into Sherlock. They’re pressed up against each other now, a most intimate embrace. He moans, and pulls John closer. As he does, he realises that John has lost his erection.

“I’m sorry,” John whispers, clearly ashamed.

“It’s all right.” Sherlock shifts away from him, still hard, wondering how he should deal with it.

“Let me,” John says. He slides down, puts his head on Sherlock’s belly and takes him in his mouth. It’s good, but the mood has passed, and Sherlock realises that he’s softening as well. He lets John try for a while, and then pushes him off.

“Not meant to be,” he says. “At least not tonight.”

John is silent, holding himself apart from Sherlock.

Maybe they should talk about this, he thinks. But it’s not familiar ground, having conversations about sex, even in bed. They aren’t talkers.

He asked John to top because he thought it would be more like the penetrative sex he was used to with women. He knows that for most straight men, their only experience of having a man’s finger up their anus is during a prostate exam. He didn’t want to make John uncomfortable, but he was. It wasn’t an erotic experience for him.

Maybe John misses having sex with women.

For a long time they lie there, neither of them asleep. When he hears John beginning to breathe deeply, Sherlock gets out of bed. He goes to the other room and sits in his chair, thinking.

* * *

In the morning, John finds himself alone in bed. He uses the loo and pads into the sitting room. Sherlock is asleep on the sofa. Again.

Well, most couples have problems occasionally. There were times with Mary when he came too quickly, and she wasn’t interested after that. She was tired, and just wanted to sleep. Sometimes he thought that she was just letting him get off on her so he wouldn’t bug her or look elsewhere.

He thinks he understands what went wrong last night, but he’s not sure how to fix it. Another item to discuss with Dr Eccles, when he has his appointment this afternoon.

He has work today, and fixes breakfast for himself. He just makes toast because he’s not sure if Sherlock is going to get up and wonder why John didn’t make him some eggs, too. He munches his toast silently, sipping his tea.

If he’d thought that having a romantic/sexual relationship with a man would be easier than it was with women, he was clearly wrong. He’d liked the fact that they don’t need a long conversation every time they have a disagreement. With Mary it was always like hammering out a major treaty between two world powers. He never argued much, so maybe it was more like the loser conceding to the terms dictated by the winner.

With Sherlock, he’d hoped they were on the same wavelength, and often that seemed to be true. But maybe there were things they needed to talk about. He just doesn’t know how to do that.

Once more, he leaves for work before Sherlock wakes.

During his lunch hour he texts Sherlock. _Want me to pick up Chinese on my way home?_

He waits, but there is no reply.


End file.
